The Fourth Istari
by BeetleChe13
Summary: Morinehtar, the lost fourth Istari, lives as a shapeshifter in southern Mirkwood. When evil from Dol Guldur overtakes her home, she pleads for Gandalf's help by showing up uninvited to Beorn's house. Making unexpected alliances and revealing her ancient secrets, she plays a crucial role in the Battle of Five Armies and slowly opens her heart to love and friendship.
1. Through the Lighted Path

"Quickly. He's almost here," the trees seemed to whisper to her. Morinehtar bounded in long strides towards the edge of the forest. Soft grey light was beginning to filter through the trees, and her heart pounded with every paw print she left behind her. A few minutes later, bright yellow light shaped like an archway lay ahead on the old dirt path and assaulted her sensitive eyes.

Pupils narrowed to a slit in the midst of deep green irises as she caught her breath and let them adjust slowly. Carefully, she planted one cautious leg in front of the other. How many years had it been since she had left the sanctuary of the forest? Sniffing and listening for danger, she emerged into the field of tall grass in the blinding midday sun. The grass stood stiffly in the still heat. No breeze blew on the dry brush.

She turned her head around, raising a black paw, to get one last look at the dark forest now known as Mirkwood. It did not look the same as when she had first discovered it centuries and centuries ago, long before the darkness had invaded from the south. The trees looked taller, paler, and older.

Slowly sinking into the grass, she prowled her way forward. The sound of birds chirping grew louder and more frequent. "Hurry," the grass pleaded. Convinced there was nothing threatening for miles around the area, she began bounding again, nearly leaping over occasional stones and keeping her head down.

"Wait for me, Gandalf," she thought. "I'm coming." Her heart clenched at the thought of missing him. She desperately needed his help. Climbing to the top of a small valley, she glanced back once more. The tree line was faint in the distance, and the surrounding landscape was beautiful, though foreign. A sudden breeze ruffled her fur and carried the scent of lavender and lilacs to her nostrils. It smelled sweet and calming, and for a moment, she was tempted to forget her worries, tempted to believe that everything would be fine.

Shaking her head, Morinehtar dipped back into the brush and ran. "I'm coming."

The dwarves, wizard, hobbit, and shapeshifter were having a jolly time that evening as the sun began to dip towards the top of the Misty Mountains. Yellow daylight was waning, filtering softly through the windows. Honey, bread, butter, cream, berries, and many other delights covered the low table and in a few places stained the white tablecloth trimmed with animal shapes. Loud guffaws and drunken singing filled the darkening room with mirth and flowed outside.

The sound of revelry made Morinehtar stop to prick up her ears and listen intently. Sniffing the air, it became apparent that there were many more people than she had anticipated. It would be difficult enough to see Gandalf again, but meeting strangers was not on her agenda. Yet, the burden in her heart was too heavy to cast aside so shallowly.

Taking the form of a human, though her original form, was not easy. Her bones creaked stubbornly as they reconfigured, muscles stretching and contracting painfully until she stood tall on two legs. Closing her eyes, she took a few deep breaths to steady herself. The air was sweet with the smell of honey, and buzzing bees were tiredly making their way to their beehives for the evening.

Looking down, she checked her clothing with a frustrating sigh. The black cloth fit the same as it had the last time she had morphed. She tugged here and there until satisfied, then ran her long, thin fingers through her hair to untangle anything. A large leaf had tangled itself in her thick hair, and she pried it gently from her blue black tresses. Huffing and shaking her head, she stepped toward the wooden structure that the ruckus was pouring from as the sun sank below the ridge behind her.

Gandalf was the first to notice the shadowed figure in the doorway. He stood to greet her as the party grew silent at his sudden movement.

"What is it?" Bilbo squeaked, wondering why the wizard would stop mid-feast. He and the dwarves glanced around to see what had arrested his attention.

"Ah, you made it," Gandalf said as he walked slowly to the doorway with arms splayed wide in greeting.

"Indeed, I did," Morinehtar answered, her own voice sounding odd in her ears. It was deeper than she remembered, and almost gravely.

"And who is this?" Beorn asked loudly from his oversized arm chair at the head of the table. "Another one of your adventurous friends?" His tone was one of irritation. Beards hung low over the tabletop in curiosity as the dwarves leaned over to get a look at the stranger. Fifteen pairs of curious eyes stared at Morinehtar.

"Adventurous, no. Friend, yes," the old man answered Beorn, amusement dancing in his eyes. The room had grown quite dark in a matter of minutes after the sun set, and Beorn called for the dogs to light torches and set them around the room. Morinehtar and guests alike watched in wonderment at the kind creatures who obeyed the wild man so well. It was strange to see animals behave that way, when she was used to the wild, untamable creatures of the forest.

The room was considerably brighter now, and she stood on the threshold waiting for a welcome. Beorn huffed and said gruffly, "Welcome, friend of Gandalf. Do you have a name?"

"You may call me Morine," she said, stepping into the hall and cautiously toward the table as Gandalf took his seat again. A dog brought a rounded and polished log up to the foot of the table for her to join the party. It sniffed her in curiosity, and for a second, his gums receded to show his sharp teeth in a silent growl. Just when Morine thought that he might try to bite her, he slunk away.

The exchange was not missed by the host, who gulped his mead from a tankard and was staring at her intently. He had not been expecting another guest, and fifteen was already more than he cared to entertain.

Murmurs circled around the table as they tried to conceal their interest in her, which was proving difficult. She had stood nearly half a head taller than Gandalf. Pale, almost reflective, skin was the only feature they could see, and the black hair and clothes looked too somber for such a lively party. Begrudgingly, they tore their eyes from her to dive back into the delicious spread of food and talk amongst themselves.

Gandalf lifted his cup to her in acknowledgment, and she lifted hers in silence. "We'll talk later," she thought, drinking from the cup. The mead burned her throat unexpectedly, and she nearly choked on it. Searching for water, she found none. An urn of milk was the closest thing, and pouring herself a mug, she chugged it down to sooth the burn.

Taking the basket nearest her, she found warm biscuits wrapped in a cloth. Slathering honey on a few, she enjoyed every bite, slowly mulling it around her mouth in appreciation. The sweetness took some getting used to, but after centuries of her forest diet and running all day to get here, she was glad for any food she could get, even if was from a reluctant host.

A small voice pulled her from her thoughts. "Morine, is it?" A tiny man asked from her left.

Mouth full of biscuits and sticky honey, she nodded her head.

Luckily the little man saw she had her mouth full and looked flustered at having bothered her at such an inopportune time. "Pardon me," he said politely. "My name is Bilbo."

She swallowed the food and said in her deep voice, "Hello Bilbo." Making small talk, or any talk for that matter, was a struggle for the estranged woman, but she knew she had to try. "It is a pleasure to meet your acquaintance." The reply seemed to be gracious enough for him, as he smiled at her contentedly.

"Well, it is a pleasure to meet yours as well," he responded, seeming a little ruffled as he fiddled with his fingers. "You are a friend of Gandalf?"

"Yes, for a long time now," Morine answered. "Though, it has been quite some time since we last met." The fact seemed to sadden the little man, and so she turned the conversation back to him. "And how do you know Gandalf?"

Looking at the table and hiding a smile, Bilbo replied, "It was quite by accident you see. I was standing on my doorstep one lovely morning, minding my own business, mind you, when he happened to walk by. We exchanged pleasantries, and before I knew it, he came over for tea the next day." He chuckled as if this simple explanation were a funny joke.

"Oh, I see," she said, not understanding what he really meant at all. Staring down at the table, he looked sad again, but this time, she recognized the dreamy far-off stare; he was homesick. "And where is home?" she ventured to ask him, "If you don't mind my asking."

"The Shire, of course. That is where all hobbits are from," he said blankly. "Well, any respectable hobbit that is."

While it had been obvious that he was no dwarf or man, she had never seen anyone like him before. "A hobbit?" she repeated.

"Yes my dear. A hobbit! You know? About yea high, large hairy feet, curly hair, homely folk," he said as if this should clear up all confusion.

She started to laugh at his description of his own race, but when he seemed agitated and embarrassed, she shook her head. "No, no. I'm sorry. I do not mean to offend," she apologized, not wanting to alienate the only person at the table who was minding her at all. "I believe that you are the first hobbit I have ever met, so you must forgive my misunderstanding."

This news clearly rattled the little man, though he looked a bit prideful about it. Puffing out his chest and raising his head in high dignity, he said, "It is an honor to represent my race for you."

To mirror his solemnity, she raised her glass as if to toast him. "Then you will not mind my inquiries?"

"Not at all. Ask away my dear," he smiled smugly, more than happy to indulge her as he stuck one hand in his coat pocket comfortably.

"Tell me more about the Shire," she demanded. "Where is it? What is it like?"

"It is quite a ways from here," he began to explain. "Across the Misty Mountains…"

Unbeknownst to the two less-than-strangers deep in conversation at the foot of the table, their host was carefully watching their exchange and growing more unnerved by the minute. He had not liked the woman from the moment she stood on his doorstep. While Gandalf had said that she was a friend—Morine, her name was?—he was less than convinced. Her arrival much later than the others was suspect enough, but he also doubted a woman would travel in the company of fifteen men. Any respectable woman, that is.

At the thought of her character he huffed into his drink, drawing the attention of the old wizard who turned to cock a curious eyebrow. "Alright over there?" he asked, barely hiding an amused smile.

From the few times Beorn had encountered the mysterious man, he knew that his twinkling eyes would always betray him. At their sparkle now, his suspicions grew. "I'm fine," he barked at the man before returning to his favorite foods.

It did not take a genius or even an observant person to see what was the source of the host's distraction. More than several of his guests had noticed his unconcealed stares at the uninvited guest. Staring at her now, he stroked his deep beard in thought. She looked strange to him, though save for a few features, she could have passed for a relative or friend of his. While her hair was black and she was of a strong build like nearly everyone he knew, it was her pale skin that unnerved him so. Its reflective surface suggested that she rarely saw the light of day. What kind of person never went outside? While he was a night owl himself, he had his reasons, and he managed to see the daylight often enough. Her clothes were black and cut like a man's. "A strange person indeed," he thought as he drank haughtily.

The interaction between the woman and the hobbit seemed innocent enough, but he was none too pleased. His would share his thoughts with the wizard when he got the chance. For now, he had had enough of trying to analyze his so-called friend. It was only making him angry. Being in no position to show his ugly side to his many—_too_ many—guests, he called it a night.

When there was a natural lull in the chatter, he banged his tankard on the table to call their attention. Clearing his throat as all their little eyes stared back at him, he said this; "I'm leaving you to your revelries now. Just one thing: do not leave the safety of this hall. If you go outside, you do so at your own peril." He gave them a grave look as they stared back in blatant curiosity. "Goodnight," he said sternly. With that, he stormed outside.


	2. Hear My Cry

After a few more hours of rousing songs and stories, the party was winding down and ready for a much-needed full night's sleep in comfortable beds, but not before Gandalf reminded them of their host's last words. _"It is time for us to sleep," he said,"—for us, but not I think for Beorn. In this hall we can rest sound and safe, but I warn you all not to forget what Beorn said before he left us: you must not stray outside until the sun is up, on your peril." _

A few dwarves and Bilbo included looked to have their interest in Beorn's warning renewed, if only until they scuffled to their low bunks along the outside walls of the hall to go to sleep. By the time they had all taken their boots off and curled up beneath the thick grey woolen blankets the dogs had laid out for them, Gandalf and Morine were able to slip away into an opposite corner without being much minded at all.

"To what do I owe the honor of your presence?" Gandalf asked her pleasantly as if he were the true host.

Morine looked sternly at him through the darkness that the light from a single candle could not penetrate. "Necessity," she answered point blankly.

The man chuckled as he pulled out his pipe, knowing it would be a long discussion. Ignoring her bluntness, he proceeded to try small talk. "How many centuries has it been, Morinehtar? Or should I say ages?" He stared off thoughtfully as if to consider the answer as he puffed away.

She crossed her arms and said nothing, making him chuckle lightly again. She found his gayety annoying, and he was amused by how morose she was. It was a party, after all, and who could not be light of heart after such a filling meal?

"Too long, it seems," he decided, eyeing at the recluse. "Have you been faring well?"

The question was confusingly open-ended for her, but none-the-less, she said "fine" all too gruffly. "You?"

Her short stabs at conversation reminded him of their host, and his eyes danced mischievously. "I have been well, thank you," Gandalf replied succinctly, as if to set a precedent about polite conversation. She was wondering if he was stalling until they could be sure their company was fully asleep. "Any word from our dearest cousin Radagast?"

"No. We have not crossed paths for many years." This fact was not unexpected from them both, for if anyone was more reclusive than Morine, it would be Radagast. "Though," she added, "I do know that he is often in the south of Mirkwood, not far from where I live myself."

Gandalf quirked an eyebrow through the cloud of floating smoke. Thoughtfully, he noted, "Ah. You are settled then? I heard as much, but it did not seem quite like you."

Her bright green eyes softened as she said, "Yes, it is true. Mirkwood is now a place I can call my home."

"And what of the Necromancer?" he poised curiously, growing more serious as the sound of dwarven snoring drifted through the hollow hall.

"If by the bane of my existence and propagator of all foul things now festering in the forest, then he is troublesome," she stated, clenching her fists under the small table that stood between them. "A thorn in my side," she reiterated. "His doings have barred me from the southwestern area of the forest, an area which is ceaselessly increasing in size."

"Hmmm," the wizard managed through taut lips, thinking deeply as he stroked his white beard of a less than practical length.

"Mmmmm," Morine copied as the two mulled it over.

Taking a few more puffs from his pipe, Gandalf said, "As it would happen, I would not be here with thirteen dwarves and a hobbit if not for the Necromancer."

"How is that so?" she asked, showing more than faint interest for once as she leaned an arm, elbow propped on the rugged table. Unfortunately for her, she had forgotten how much the old man liked to tell stories.

"Yes, for you see, it was just a few short years ago that I was last in the area. There is a place near the southwestern part of Mirkwood called Amon Lanc," he began explaining as Morine nodded her head. "Or, as some people now call it, Dol Guldur."

"Dol Guldur?" she repeated the strange words. From the small amount of elvish that she knew, she could decipher its meaning: hill of dark sorcery.

Gandalf continued. "Unbeknownst to myself, the Necromancer now operates from this hill, though I did not know it at the time."

She nodded soberly. Though the information was new, it made sense. For many months now she had noticed that the insurgence of evil in the forest was coming from a decidedly southwestern direction. "At what time?" she asked the cryptic man.

Blowing a smoke ring that danced around her head, he said, "At the time I met Thorin's father, though I did not know that either." Morine was growing impatient with his riddles. "I was exploring southern Mirkwood one day," he began again, as if traveling to the dark forest were a perfectly mundane and acceptable thing to do on any given day, "when I saw—"

"Why were you in Mirkwood?" Morine interjected grumpily. She felt rebuffed that her cousin Gandalf had visited her home, and this was the first that she was hearing about it.

"Oh, curiosity, I suppose," he ventured. "I was hoping I would run into Radagast or learn of his where-abouts, but when I stumbled across the fortress—"

"What fortress?" she interrupted again.

Now it was Gandalf who was getting irritated at her ignorance. "There is a fortress atop Amon Lanc, the Necromancer's dark abode," he explained. "It's an intimidating feature, no doubt. Towers, gates, a huge staircase, guards…" He quit listing as Morine glared at him. Clearing his throat, he continued. "Naturally, I was curious as to how this place came to be and when it was constructed, and so on and so forth."

He paused to smoke his pipe, and the hall was still with quiet. In fact, it was louder outside as the noise of summertime bugs crescendoed. The amount and noise of life outside of Mirkwood was something Morine could not get used to.

"I crept inside the stronghold to investigate." Morine's green eyes met Gandalf's grey ones in an intense stare, causing him to chuckle. "You need to lighten up my dear," he told her. "You are always so serious.

"And is this not serious?" she asked, sitting back and crossing her arms. "You went inside…"

"Yes, yes. I went inside to investigate and wandered my way down into the dungeons, as I was sure there was more security in the higher levels. Though, as my presence went unnoticed, I now believe that the abomination was not in at the time," he said. "I had nearly gotten myself lost and given up when I heard a rustling coming from one of the corners. Closer and closer I tread, carefully of course, until in a small beam of light I saw a pale little arm reach out for me." Morine was so entranced that she had nearly given up breathing. "'Hello?' I said to whatever poor creature it was that I could not see. The raspiest voice I ever heard answered, 'Please. Help me.' Naturally, I wanted to help the poor fellow any way I could. 'How can I help?' I asked."

Gandalf stopped yet again to smoke a bit more, thoroughly enjoying how impatient Morine was becoming, but since she said nothing more, he knew he had her hooked and could take his time. "When he stretched out his hand again, a large gold key was laid in his palm. 'Take it,' he urged me. 'Find my son, and give it to him.'"

Morine asked, "Why could he not do it himself? And what was he doing down in the Necromancer's dungeons?"

"How he came to be down there I do not know, but he was enchained, you see." She grumbled at this lapse in his explanation. "The Necromancer had imprisoned him for some reason, though I am certain that no reason would be necessary for the tyrant to do as he pleases." Morine nodded her head in agreement. "I took the key and kept it safe on my person. Who was I to dissent? We did not have much time, for we both feared the arrival of the Necromancer at any moment. He also handed me an old map of the Lonely Mountain. 'Who is your son?' I asked. He had not given me his own name, and he refused to give me his son's name. Before I could find out any more about my mission, he died."

The woman's mouth had slowly gaped its way open in disbelief. She closed it when she realized her façade was shattered. "How unfortunate," she intimated.

"Indeed," Gandalf said. "He was very old for a dwarf though, and I suppose that he had clung to life in the hopes that one day something would happen as it did—that someone would find him there in his misery and fulfill his dying wish. After I escaped Dol Guldur, I had no clue where to begin my hunt. All I had to go on was that the key would belong to a dwarf. It was a nice key of the purest gold, and so no ordinary dwarf would do. A few years later, I happened to meet the acquaintance of a wandering dwarf who had lost both his father and grandfather—a proud dwarf who was gathering a company to fight Smaug off the Lonely Mountain and regain the treasure that had been stolen from his people. 'How noble!' I thought as he told me his sad story." Gandalf was visibly impressed. "He introduced himself as Thorin Oakenshield, the son of Thrain and grandson of Thror, one of the greatest dwarves who ever lived."

She looked over into the darkness where Thorin and his company slept soundly. "Incredible," she said softly.

Gandalf nodded somberly. "Yes, and it was immensely fortunate of me to have run into him when I did. He was of noble descent and on a brave mission. If his father, Thrain, was the prisoner in the dungeon, then the key and map could most certainly belong to him, and the Necromancer would have had some incentive to imprison Thrain, though I can only wonder what he was after."

They surmised the possibility together. "What is the key for?" Morine asked him after some time.

He shook his head. "I do not know, and I am not sure that Thorin knows either. However, it is of great importance, to be sure," he concluded. "If I had not an important appointment to keep, I would accompany them further on their quest. As it is, I must lead them to the edge of Mirkwood and leave at once, for it would not do to be late."

Morine shrugged her shoulders at her flaky friend, feeling that he was as mysterious as ever. It was just like him to throw people into a quest and then abandon them at the worse moment. They would need his help and more to get through the forest safely. She was unfamiliar with the northern path that Beorn had told them to take, though she knew he was correct that the southern path she was familiar with and had even taken that very morning was too dangerous and overgrown for them to attempt the crossing. While she had her own concerns, Gandalf's carefree dilly-dallying was sapping her resolve to ask for his assistance.

"I assume you have some great reason for showing up here uninvited?" he intuitively noted.

He watched her sigh and uncross her arms. Cautiously, she said, "Yes. I need your help."

This admission did not faze him, though he knew how it must bother her to have to ask. She was as prideful as ever, just as he remembered. "How did you know I was here?" he asked her curiously.

"I have my ways," she simply said. He did not know that she communed with the plant life of the forest, much as Radagast did with animals. "And I would not be here if it were not important."

Gandalf nodded, stroking his beard. "Mm-hm," he said.

Taking a deep breath, Morine stated her case. "This Necromancer, as you call him, must be the source of the problem. While the forest known as Mirkwood has slowly grown darker over the natural course of years, the last few decades have changed its character completely." Gandalf noticed that she spoke of it as if it were an entity all its own. "I have been fighting off the orcs, spiders, and other evils as well as I can, but their numbers are expanding beyond my control. I had already determined that they are concentrated towards the southwestern part of the forest, though I now suspect from your long-winded tale that they must be coming from Dol Guldur, or are else attracted to their evil brethren." It sounded like a military report. "They have already begun infiltrating deeper into the forest, and even coming here was no easy task. I must find some way to stop this evil from spreading to all corners of the forest. Even the elves have tucked their tails between their legs and retreated to the north," she spat bitterly. "It won't be long before I can no longer escape and all life in Mirkwood will be threatened. It must be stopped," she urged him, resisting the urge to slam her fist on the small table.

The candle was over halfway melted, and even the bugs had drifted to sleep. The sound of scratching outside the main door caught their attention simultaneously as they jerked their heads to the door. Morine's heart began racing at the threat, and she felt ready to pounce. Gandalf assured her they were perfectly safe. "We are fine as long as we stay inside the confines of the hall," he said, noticing her discomfort. "Ahem. I agree that something must be done about the Necromancer, but what that something is or if it would work is beyond me." Morine looked dreadfully disappointed, and so he added, "But I will see what can be done. Have you tried contacting Radagast?"

She sullenly shook her head. "No," she admitted. "Though I could try to track him down."

Gandalf shook his head. "That will not be necessary. I will see if he and Saruman have any ideas when the White Council meets again. Meanwhile, stay out of the way," he suggested, the order making her temper flare.

Fed up with the man, she left him in favor of finding the nearest available cot. After Morine had fallen into a heavy sleep, Gandalf spent the remaining evening hours deep in thought. The candle that was lit hours ago now was but an inch of molten wax on the table, though the sky was slowly lightening into a pale yellow in the east. The birds were beginning to chirp their good mornings, but the wizard hardly felt tired at all. His beard had been thoroughly combed by his fingers at this point, and just as the sun peeked over the forest and stained the sky pink, Beorn stomped into the hall.

"Good morning," Gandalf greeted him pleasantly, blowing out what was left of the candle.

Beorn grumpily mumbled something in return while he dug through the adjacent kitchen for biscuits, milk, and honey. He offered the old man some, though he politely refused. While the sun was quickly rising higher in the sky, the hall was as silent as the wee hours. The company was exhausted from the long journey over the mountains with rarely any decent sleep.

When Beorn finally finished his hasty breakfast and gulped down the last of his milk, he wiped his thick beard with his arm and glared at Gandalf when he said, "I need a word with you."

"Oh?" Gandalf raised his bushy eyebrows. Beorn was not one for idle chit-chat.

"Outside," the host growled as he stood up and stomped back over to the door, the wizard following him without a word.

Where he led them had clearly been used recently as a meeting place. Gandalf keenly recognized the many paw prints on the ground as bear tracks, and they were loosely configured into a circle. He wondered if the animals were the cause of the strange sounds heard overnight, such as scratching and growling, but he thought better of asking the temperamental host about it.

He was settling himself onto a log when Beorn suddenly said, "I don't like her."

"Morinehtar?" Gandalf chuckled. "She is perfectly harmless," he said, knowing it was not quite true.

Beorn grumbled something about her being a woman before he said clearly, "I know that you didn't invite her."

"True, she is not a member of the company, but as I said, she is my friend," Gandalf reinforced.

Looking none too happy, Beorn said, "Fourteen friends were plenty enough. I'd like to know how she thinks she can show up at my house uninvited and at such a late hour."

Gandalf tried not to laugh. He knew that Beorn cared little for etiquette. It was the principle of the matter that was angering him. The man was practically a recluse and was not one for having many guests. "I understand," he said to his kind host, pondering if there was something more about her that was getting to him. "It will not happen again. We will leave tomorrow morning, and she will leave as well."

"Good," Beorn said, leaving a pensive Gandalf to go tend to his bees.

The image of Morine burned in Beorn's mind. She looked strange and untrustworthy, though he never trusted any women. From his limited experience, they were fickle in nature and quick to turn on you. No, he did not like them at all, especially the queer one that had forced her way into his home. Remembering her silhouette in the doorway made his blood boil. Who did this lass think she was? He growled as he checked the honeycombs in a few hives before going to check on his horses. He shook his head as he found solace in grooming the horses' hair. No, he did not care for her one bit.


	3. Secret Swap

Inside, Morine slept listlessly. Tossing and turning, she dreamed of her brother, Romenstar.

The smell of salt water and the feeling of wind in her hair assaulted her senses, even in her sleep. She remembered the scene as if it were yesterday and not several thousand years ago. The trip from the Undying Lands to Middle Earth was a long trek across the open waters beginning at the port in Avallon. The Enchanted Isles were the only point of interest on their way to the first and only stop in Numenor. It was ages ago, and she had felt much younger at heart, unburdened by the world's troubles and looking the same as she did now. Centuries later, she would mourn the loss of the noble race of the Numenoreans and the beautiful island that had greeted them both so warmly.

Romenstar was excited to leave for the land of the mortals. She remembered his huge smile that he wore during the entire trip. He had an adventurer's heart, and the strong wind blowing over the waters swirled his dark ringlets of hair around his head. The two had been given an important mission by their lord, Orome, to assist the elves and men in their social progression. At the time, they had no idea what they were in for. Man was in the beginning stages of proliferation and settlement, slowly developing technologies and advancing their knowledge. As for the elves, the Firstborn had proven their capability of taking care of themselves, though their many wars with Melkor and each other were disheartening. They needed to be reconciled to each other more than to the rest of their world.

Dreaming about that fateful trip long ago, she smiled in her sleep. She and Romenstar had never been closer than the months they spent on that small ship, and her heart ached when her memories relived the terrible storm they had barely survived through. Her body felt the pseudo-waves and nausea she had experienced for the first time, and he was kind enough to hold her long hair back for her when she got sick.

Arriving in Middle Earth was less grand than she had wanted, though Romen was as jubilant as ever. Leaving the ship was her only joy. Initially, they had noticed how different the geography was, and as they slowly traveled eastward as they were told, they encountered some of the many creatures—good and bad—that the strange land was home to. Her subconscious reminded her that she had indeed seen a few hobbits before crossing the Brandywine River, though they were only a few and lived far apart from one another. Hobbiton had yet to be settled, and they had not interacted with the little folk on their way east.

The Misty Mountains grew in the distance, and their splendor had entranced them both. The Undying Lands were beautiful, but this land was wild and rugged, more primordial than they had ever imagined. Everything was exciting and new. Each flower, each animal, each new landscape took their breath away. It was easy to forget why they were sent there in the first place. Romen was sociable with all humanity they encountered, while she stood awkwardly by and watched him bond with them as naturally as if they were brothers. When had he become this charismatic?

From the top of the mountains, the first view of Wilderland was breathtaking. Beyond the gentle slopes were golden plains, and a gigantic, thick forest stretched as far as they could see. The only features beyond the forest were the Grey Mountains to the north and a lone mountain peak, only barely visible. She was truly mystified.

In her dream, she and Romen made their way down the Misty Mountains, across the barren grasslands and into the forest. They walked for hours and hours in the dark foliage. When she turned around to talk to Romen, he was gone. She called for him over and over, louder and louder. Morine got scared and worried as the dream bordered on a nightmare. She collapsed on the forest floor and cried after what felt like hours of searching for him.

Suddenly, she jerked awake and gasped for air. Bilbo had been shaking her gently. "You were having a bad dream," he stated.

"Oh," she said, shaking her head. "Thank you." Looking around the hall and trying to gather her wits, she noticed how bright the room was—warm yellow sunlight glowed around them. "What time is it?"

"It's nearly tea time," Bilbo said with a smile. "Perhaps my favorite time of day. Would you care to join me on the veranda?"

She rubbed her eyes sleepily and climbed out of the low laying bed, feeling groggy despite her half day of sleep. "Sure," she managed as Bilbo scuffled off to prepare the tea. Gathering her thick hair into a ponytail, she tied it back with a long strip of black leather she kept on her person.

Nearly stumbling when she tried to walk, she stopped to do a full body stretch with a yawn. The dwarves all eyed her carefully in the midst of their conversations when she made her way to the veranda. Outside, the smell of honeysuckles and the sound of bees bid her good day. Despite the beauty of Beorn's home, she struggled to leave her dream behind.

"What were you dreaming about?" Bilbo asked her softly, genuinely curious.

Morine sat down beside him on a split log and sipped the warm honeyed tea that he had kindly handed her. "My brother," she answered begrudgingly, knowing that she would normally never share such intimate information with someone, but she could not resist as the sweet hobbit looked at her with his innocent blue eyes like a child.

"You have a brother?" he asked excitedly.

"Yes," she said rather sad. She quietly drank more tea and bit into a buttery scone.

Bilbo looked out at the garden with her before saying thoughtfully, "I have two brothers and two sisters. I hardly ever hear from them though." Morine smiled at him as he added, "Except at the holidays, of course. We do have great parties." She did not doubt it one bit. From last night's conversation in which he divulged to her everything you could possibly know about hobbits, they enjoyed good food and social events, him not excluded. It was clear to her from the start that he had been enjoying himself before and after her arrival.

"I never hear from my brother either," Morine consoled. Opening up a bit, she said, "He moved out east without me."

Sipping his tea, he said, "Ah. Yes. Distance can make strangers of us all." She nodded, thinking that it always does. "Did you hear those strange noises last night?" he asked, turning to her. "Those scratches at the door were rather frightening. I had quite a time trying to fall back asleep."

Morine wondered if he had heard anything she and Gandalf had discussed before deciding that he would not be able to make heads-or-tails of their conversation's content anyway. "Yes, I did," she answered him, enjoying another scone as she pondered what the source of the noise had been.

As the two sat comfortably on the veranda as if it were their own abode, she was amazed at how at ease she was with the little hobbit she had met last night. After only a few conversations, they were talking as friends might, making Morine believe that it was either her loneliness from living in the forest so long without company or else his warm, outgoing nature that allowed their connection to blossom. Whatever the reason, she found herself enjoying his company more than she had anyone else's in a very long time.

They sat in the weakening sunlight for some time, talking and listening and watching the wildlife in front of them. "It's a beautiful place," Morine told Bilbo.

Bilbo laughed rudely before explaining, "Oh, I can see how you would say that. The flowers and animals are wonderful to see, and the land is beautiful by itself, but I much prefer the Shire, with its luscious green grass and gently rolling hills." His eyes glazed over as he envisioned his precious home, and she knew she must look the same when she thought of Mirkwood. "The land is excellent for farming, and there are several small creeks that run through the valleys. The forests are not so dense and threatening as the ones we have traversed thus far."

"What about your home? What is it like?" she asked, being polite and sincerely interested.

"Ah," he said as he laced his hands together atop his miniature, rotund belly. "It is wonderful. My father built it for my mother when they got married. It is in the side of a hill, as hobbit holes often are, and there are windows running along the southern side. The wood is dark, and the walls and ceilings are rounded. I have dozens of rooms, including several closets, cellars, and pantries." He chuckled. "No one would ever go hungry in my home. Everything is warm, inviting, and refined," he said, putting emphasis on the last word.

She understood what he meant. Beorn's home must seem rugged and primitive in comparison to his usual surroundings. Even the brass buttons on his coat, though a few were missing, hinted that Bilbo prided himself on aesthetics and civility.

Standing up, Morine grabbed Bilbo's hand and tugged him off the veranda. "Come with me. I have something to show you," she told him. He did not look as skeptical as she thought he would be, and he trustfully followed her.

Down in a small valley where the house was too far for prying eyes, she stopped. "Here," she said. "I haven't done this in a long time." Her heart began racing at the thought of trying her old skills as Bilbo watched her curiously.

She placed her palms together as in a prayer and closed her eyes, concentrating on the energy she felt coursing through her body. When she felt her fingers tingle, she slowly pulled her hands apart, loosely shaped around an invisible sphere. Bilbo gasped, and when she opened her eyes, the sphere was two feet wide. Lightning crackled between her fingers and shot from one hand to the other. The energy was immense and condensed, raising the hairs on her arms and permeating heat. She pushed her hands slowly together, cupping the energy in her palms as it fizzled out.

Bilbo clapped enthusiastically as she wiped the sweat from her brow. "Splendid!" he peeped, nearly jumping up and down. "Oh, just marvelous! How did you do that? Is it magic?"

"Don't tell anyone, okay? This is our secret," Morine said, feeling that she could trust him.

"Alright," he nodded solemnly. "I swear I will not say a word to anyone." Morine turned to walk back to the house when Bilbo said, "Wait!" He fiddled in his pockets for a moment and said, "Since we are sharing secrets, will you keep mine?"

"Yes, of course," she said, wondering what secret the sincere hobbit could possibly hold.

Suddenly, he disappeared before her eyes. She was so surprised that she nearly jumped. Looking every which way for him, she felt a tug on the back of her shirt. "I'm right here," Bilbo said with a large smile as she eyed him with wonderment.

"How?" she managed to ask with a small smile.

"This little trinket." He showed her a golden ring before tucking it back into his pocket and placing a finger to his lips. "I trust you not to tell a soul, but if the company were to find out, all my fun would be spoiled," he said with a mischievous wink.

Morine shook her head at Bilbo's newfound mystery. She held out her hand for them to shake on it. "Your secret is my secret."

"And yours is mine," he promised.

They smiled at each other in the lingering light of sunset. "We better get back," Morine said, not knowing what dangers the unknown countryside held.

"It will be time for supper soon," Bilbo said happily. Side by side, they walked back to Beorn's house in silent camaraderie.


	4. Beans in the Pot

Beorn watched the strange woman and the hobbit walk back to the house in the waving, golden grass that was nearly taller than Bilbo. The two looked surprisingly chummy, and it seemed they had spent the day in each other's company. He scratched his scruffy chin and went inside, pondering what it meant, if anything at all.

Supper that evening was even more extravagant, if such a word could apply to the roughhewn setting, than it was the night before since Beorn knew they were staying another night. Though he did not enjoy having guests, he went out of his way to take good care of any he had. "Sixteen guests!" he thought as he observed the many faces around the table and wondered why he was so unlucky. He was looking forward to having his quiet house back to normal.

Morine was sitting next to Bilbo, and they were talking to each other. Now and then, a dwarf would jump into the conversation. Of his guests, the hobbit had seemed the least likely to befriend the suspicious woman, but perhaps he was more naïve than Beorn had believed. He shook his head and drank deeply of his mead, haphazardly splashing some in his beard.

On his left, Gandalf chuckled at him. "What's so funny?" Beorn grumpily asked the wizard, slamming his tankard on the table and turning a few heads. When his pride was at stake, his temper often flared. He was in his own house, and he would not tolerate being made fun of.

"What a wonderful meal," Gandalf said jovially, deflecting the subject and stuffing his face with more food to avoid the wrath of the host.

Beorn huffed and searched for the bottom of his tankard. He noticed Bombur a few seats on his right begin chugging his mead as well, and they raced to finish their drinks, though Beorn's mug dwarfed the dwarf's mug. After a couple more rounds, others had joined the drinking contest, and before long, everyone but Gandalf and Thorin were downing the alcohol as fast as they could, though none could give the host good competition. His large frame could hold much more than even the most experienced of dwarves, and several of them had passed out now and were snoring with their heads down on the table. He guffawed and set his tankard down when it became clear to the party that he was the winner. The few dwarves that had not passed out began to sing a silly song instead.

Morine eyed a friendlier seeming Beorn from the far end of the table. Alcohol agreed with him, and he handled it as well as she did, though only six mugs had she polished off. She could not help but think that the man was rather moody. One moment, he was brooding and irritable, the next he was jovial and fun. His unchecked stares at her had not gone unnoticed either. His dark brown eyes were unnerving, and only talking with the nearest tablemate could take her mind from their stare.

She shuffled uncomfortably in her seat now while she talked to Dori about their recent escape from the goblins' caverns. "…And we were seated around a campfire discussing whether to go back in for Bilbo or not, when suddenly, he appeared right before our eyes! Borin was rather upset that he had managed to slip by his guard unnoticed, and Thorin was right ticked that Borin had not been paying enough attention," Dori said, cheeks ruddy red from the drinking contest.

Morine figured that must be what Bilbo meant by having his fun, and they both laughed. He continued, "So we headed off down the mountainside because we knew that the goblins would be chasing us once the sun went down, what with us killing their chieftain and all, and we slid down a big pile of rocks. That's how I got this gash, see?" Dori lifted his pants leg and set his hairy little leg upon the table to show off his healing scar. "It caused a huge rockslide, and there was a loud commotion. We hid behind the trees to avoid the boulders. Then the goblins started coming after us, and we ran through the forest until we got to a huge clearing."

At this point, his animated story had grabbed the attention of the other dwarves, who occasionally attempted to butt in and retell it better, but Dori would have no one stealing his limelight as Morine listened intently. "Wolves started howling around us in all directions, and we had nowhere to else to go but up. We scampered up the trees as fast as we could, with poor Bilbo barely making it up in time, and fifty wolves showed up in the clearing. Then more and more and more until there were hundreds. They were not wolves, but evil Wargs."

Morine growled at the mention of the creatures she had encountered only a few times, though she knew they were the source of many troubles in this area. "They were having an important meeting that night, and they set guards at the bottom of our trees so that we could not escape," Dori described as she shook her head.

"How _did_ you escape?" she asked him.

"Gandalf used that magic of his," he said, not knowing how to explain it. "He set pinecones on fire and threw them at the wolves. He even hit the chief smack in the nose." The table exploded in laughter. "They ran around lighting each other on fire and some ran away altogether. But the guards had not left us, and they piled wood around the trunks, letting the ones on fire run by and light them."

She gasped. "How did you escape?" she asked again, green eyes wide in wonderment.

"The Lord of the Eagles saw what was happening, and he swooped down and picked up Gandalf with his huge talons," he said, making large arm motions. "Then other eagles came by and picked us up one by one, and we barely escaped before the fire got us. Poor Bilbo was hanging by my legs the whole flight back up to the mountains. We stayed with the eagles for the night and ate some warm meat—"

"For the first time in three days, mind you," interjected Bilbo with the pertinent information as he wagged his finger.

"The next morning they flew us as far as they could and dropped us off atop a huge rock, almost a hill really, in the middle of a river," he said.

"The Carrock," Beorn barked.

Looking slightly flustered by the host's correction, Dori finished, "And then we followed Gandalf here."

Beorn glanced angrily at Gandalf, who had obviously taken the company straight here on the assumption that they would be given refuge without any prior notice. He felt like a fool, and his temper flared, but the wizard simply smiled behind his twinkling eyes, and Beorn calmed down, knowing that turning them away was impossible now. If he were honest with himself, he would admit that he had been enjoying their company, if only for two nights. He would make sure that the mischievous wizard would leave with his troop and that blasted woman first thing in the morning.

The evening died down much as the one before it had: Beorn slipped away outside without a word, and the dwarves and hobbit slinked off to bed one-by-one until Gandalf and Morine sat at the same table as the night before.

"We leave bright and early," the wizard said. "Beorn wishes you would leave in the morning as well, if not sooner."

She quirked an eyebrow. The large man had seemed hospitable enough despite his stares. "You're leaving as well?" she asked him.

"Yes," he answered slowly. "I had planned to leave them here, as I have a meeting with the White Council soon, but I believe I may escort them to the edge of Mirkwood. Beorn has been kind enough to lend us a horse and many ponies to get us to the trail entrance."

"That's nice of him," she huffed, crossing her arms, making Gandalf think that the dislike was mutual between the two of them.

Softly, he asked, "Have you been practicing your magic?"

"Why?" she snapped, narrowing her eyes.

He chuckled and said, "Oh no reason. I have been practicing my own to make fireworks, as you heard from Dori earlier."

After a pause, she said, "Not exactly." He waited patiently for her elaboration, though she would never tell him that she used it to shift into a panther's form while in the forest. "I did show Bilbo what I could manage today, but I've gotten rather rusty. He showed me something as well." She glanced around the hall and listened, but decided, "Come with me."

She led Gandalf to the veranda and over to the farthest side from the door. When he was settled into a lone wooden chair and paying attention, she continued. "Dori told me the story about Bilbo appearing out of nowhere when you had escaped from the goblins." Gandalf nodded his head and leaned closer, since she was nearly whispering. "He showed me how he did it. Did you know he found a ring?" His eyes widened, and he shook his head. "When he puts the ring on his finger, it makes him disappear. What kind of ring could do that?"

Being Istari, the two were familiar with all kinds of magic, but Morinehtar had never encountered something of that nature. Gandalf stared intently at the moonlit foliage around them, and Morine waited patiently for his answer. "I do not know," he said slowly, "Though I would not put it past a silly elf to make such a trinket. I doubt it is dwarven. They take their work too seriously."

"What if it is something more sinister?" Morine whispered.

"Hmmm." He entertained the thought for a few seconds because shaking his head. "I rather doubt that as well. But as per your request, I will bring up Dol Guldur and the Necromancer to the attention of the White Council, though I already have once before."

Morine looked troubled by this. "If they already know about it, then why haven't they done anything?" she asked sternly.

"The Necromancer poses a greater threat than perhaps you realize," he warned. "Promise me that you will not try to take the situation into your own hands."

"Heh. Yeah right," she retorted. The stubborn woman was not the type to take orders from anyone, much less the grey wizard.

"I am serious, Morinehtar," he pleaded stonily. "We were sent here to help, not to put our lives at risk. Let the White Council do what it will."

Her nostrils flared in anger. "And let Mirkwood be destroyed by the darkness?" she said too loudly. More quietly, she explained, "I have made my home there for the last Age, as has Radagast. If you let this evil continue to spread, all of Middle Earth could eventually be threatened, and is this not what our mission was?"

He stroked his beard, giving her time to cool down. Then he proposed, "I tell you what. Why don't we take care of each other's problems? I will take care of the Necromancer for you, if the White Council will concede to help, and you can assist the company in their quest. They could certainly use your help getting through the forest." His eyes twinkled, knowing that she would prove more useful than she knew, should she agree.

"Forget it," she said, still angry. "Slaying dragons and adventuring with dwarves is not to my taste."

"And a hobbit," he pointed out, making her sneer. "You came to me for help, and this is my only current solution."

Morine grumbled unhappily, not knowing what else they could do. "I can barely use my magic anymore, and I do not know northern Mirkwood like I do the south. I would be marginally useless," she tried to convince herself more than him.

"Very well then. Suit yourself, you stubborn old coot," he said, riling her temper again. "But keep your nose out of Dol Guldur for the time being. If you have truly lost your magic as you claim, then you would only get in our way, and if the White Council will join me in fighting off the Necromancer, then Radagast will surely assist us, and we do not want all of our beans in the same pot."

"I'll throw you in a pot," she threatened as he laughed.

"What have you to say?" he asked, wanting a simple yes.

"I say you're crazy."

He smiled and stroked his beard. "Maybe. Maybe."

"Why does Beorn want me to leave so badly?" she suddenly asked.

Gandalf quickly answered, "Because he doesn't like you."

She huffed, "Well, I don't like him either." Morine stormed toward the door to sleep in the house she knew she was not welcome in, and Gandalf marveled that she and Beorn could not be more alike.

"Promise me," he said as her foot hit the threshold, making her stop. "Promise me that you will stay away from Dol Guldur. Romen would have my head if anything happened to you."

"Don't you worry about what Romen thinks. I stopped caring long ago," Morine said bitterly, leaving the old man to his thoughts on the moon-splashed veranda.


	5. FareTheeWells

Beorn awoke as the sky was lightening into a pale blue. The early birds were beginning to chirp as he wandered from his bedroom in the western wing of the house into the kitchen to begin cooking for his many guests.

Few things soothed his soul like cooking did, though no one knew it. He enjoyed making biscuits from scratch, preserving fruits into jellies and jams, and rolling out fresh dough. The animals would often help by grabbing ingredients from the pantry and bringing them to the large wooden table he used as a counter. The help would have been useful this morning, as making a full breakfast for seventeen people was no easy task (especially when he and the hobbit could eat enough for several men), but his beastly friends seemed off-put and were outside avoiding the company.

By the time that Morine had waken to the mingling smells of fresh strong coffee and honey, he had laid the table with the finest foods he could muster in a few hours—croissants, biscuits, milk, oatmeal, a variety of freshly picked berries, and much more. She had noticed from supper the last two nights the absence of meat, but she was polite enough to say nothing about it, though some of the dwarves had been less sensitive in their aching for roasted game. Though her pride had urged her to leave the house last night, it had been a long time since she had last slept in a bed rather than the forest floor or a tree, and his cooking was much more fulfilling than anything she could gather or hunt.

"Good morning," Morinehtar said pleasantly as she passed by Beorn on the way to her usual seat next to Bilbo.

He glared but said, "Morning." She glared back at him for a second, and Gandalf saw their intense eye contact before he watched her dig into her breakfast while Beorn grumbled into his milk.

It was a quiet breakfast, and the group was clearly dreading leaving the comfort of Beorn's home as they unenthusiastically packed their few belongings. "You have been very generous," Gandalf praised the host later when they assembled outside by the barn-like structure.

"You're welcome, friend," Beorn said, clapping him on the shoulder. What he said next was completely unexpected: "You can come back any time you please."

"A thousand thanks," Thorin said as he bowed low, making the others pipe up their gratitude as well. "If there is anything I can do—"

"If I ever need your services, I will ask for it," Beorn cut him off grumpily, annoyed at the noble's perpetual propriety.

"Do not hesitate to ask," the noble dwarf told him before mounting his pony.

Morine sighed as she helped Bilbo onto his own pony, which was the smallest of the ones Beorn provided. The top of the miniature steed's head barely reached her hips. "This is goodbye, my friend," she said, brushing the pony's chestnut mane with her lean fingers.

"I suppose it is," he sighed as well. "Whenever shall we meet again?"

"I'm sure we will," she said, hardly believing it herself. She knew better than he just how large the world was. "I just don't know when," she whispered.

They smiled sadly at each other. "Well, goodbye then, Morine," he simply said. "Until next time."

"Goodbye, Bilbo." Her teary eyes looked even greener in the bright sunlight. She forced herself to turn away from him and started walking away from the stables where they were gearing up, willing herself not to look back.

"Where is she going?" Bilbo wondered aloud. In the direction he had watched her disappear, there was nothing but wilderness, as far as he could tell.

"Home," Gandalf told him.

When Gandalf was finally able to leave the complaining company at the mouth of the northern trail of Mirkwood, he was irked that he would be late for his meeting with the White Council. It would be hard to explain to the others since he was the one who had called the meeting. After riding for a few miles back southward with the ponies ahead of him, he reigned in the horse. "Beorn?" he called loudly, knowing that the man had been following the company the entire trip while in his bear form. A few minutes later, Beorn came lumbering out of the tree line.

"What?" he asked sharply, carefully watching his ponies.

"Could I borrow your horse for a while longer?" Gandalf asked politely, hoping that he was still feeling generous. "I am running late for an important meeting near Lothlorien, and walking would only make me later."

After a moment's consideration and a hard stare at the old bastard, he said gruffly, "Very well." He began rounding up his ponies to lead them home.

One nuzzled the Gandalf's knee as the wizard said, "Thank you for your generosity. I will return him to you as soon as I can." He galloped away.

***

When he finally trotted into the glade on the outskirts of Lothlorien, he was the last one to arrive. Haldir, Orophir, and Rumil made him stop at a checkpoint. They checked his bags and person with a sense of urgency. "They have been waiting for you," Haldir informed him. "Galadriel requests that you go straight in. We will take care of your horse and bags."

"Thank you," Gandalf said as he dismounted and strode to the base of the tree with the largest tallon. At the top, a large silver table stretched across the floor to seat over a dozen people, many of whom stopped conversing and leaned over the table to stare at the late comer. Raising a hand to stop their commentary, he explained, "I had an important delivery to make before I could be on my way. I came as soon as I could."

Saruman smiled lightly as he noted, "And since when has the noble Gandalf been reduced to a delivery boy?" A few people laughed at the thought. "Need I remind you that you were the one who adjourned this rendezvous?"

Gandalf looked around as he wordlessly took his seat between Elrond and Galadriel and saw that Saruman was seated at the head of the table. The white wizard had been elected the head of the council despite a few who had cast their allegiance with Gandalf. Several prominent elven leaders were present. Cirdan, Glorindel, and even Radagast had also made it to the meeting. He waved to the latter, who waved a greeting back. The two would have much to discuss after the meeting.

Saruman banged his white staff on the floor a few times and stated authoritatively, "This meeting of the White Council is now called to order. Without further delays," he continued with a perk of a bushy white eyebrow, "I give the floor to Gandalf."

"Thank you for coming here today," Gandalf said from his chair. He was must too tired from the several days of hard riding to stand, so he spoke loudly for all to hear. "I have called you together to discuss the growing threat in Mirkwood."

"You mean the Necromancer?" Saruman interjected. "Did we not decide at our last meeting that he was not a serious threat to be concerned with?"

"Yes, so we did, but that was before I learned what I now know," he replied.

Whispers erupted around the table, and Saruman tapped his staff on the floor. "Here, here. What is it you have learned? And please be swift in your answer. We have waited long enough for you," he said icily.

Gandalf brushed the rudeness aside and began to tell his story about stealing into Dol Guldur as quickly as he could muster, leaving out the part about the map and key that Thrain had given him. He knew the possibility that someone would have a greedy heart and try to intercept the company. He concluded, "I now know that it is Sauron who has entrenched himself in Dol Guldur, and he is spreading his evil fingers well into Mirkwood. If we do nothing, all of Middle Earth could be threatened."

A momentary chaos of loud chatter was a challenge for Saruman to quell. Before he could reply, Galadriel asked Gandalf, "How do we know that this is true? The Silvan elves retreated to the north of Mirkwood long ago, but we have heard little of how the evil had progressed since then."

"I have sources in the forest who have watched the evil grow," he replied.

"What sources?" Saruman snapped, clearly doubting him.

"The Blue Wizard Morinehtar." Soft gasps were heard as Gandalf and Saruman stared at each other without blinking.

Finally, Saruman killed the silence with cruel laughter, mocking him. "A red herring, I am sure." A few whispers agreed with him. "No one has heard from the Blue Wizards since they crossed the Misty Mountains over a thousand years ago. How could we possibly believe you?"

Slightly red in the face, Gandalf retorted, "I cannot speak to the where-abouts of her brother, Romenstar, but if not for her continual help in keeping the evil at bay, the whole of Mirkwood would have been overrun by spiders, orcs, and worse by now." A few faces nodded their agreement, though Saruman looked less than swayed.

"I can attest to her presence in the south of the forest," Radagast's low voice echoed, capturing the party's attention. "The Silvan elves even have a legend about her, which surely some of you have heard, as it is a children's tale." He shared but a small snippet of the sing-song poem:

"Into the southern Mirkwood trees,

There lives a cat amidst the leaves.

Its fur is blacker than the night;

Its claws are sharp and eyes are bright.

The panther lurks beneath the stars,

Protecting land, both it and ours."

Saruman raised his hand, signaling him to stop the recitation. "Are you saying that she takes the form of a large black feline?" he asked the brown wizard, clearly disbelieving the children's tale. It was difficult for him to believe that a fellow wizard would waste his magic in such a trivial way.

"Yes, I am," Radagast said firmly with a stiff nod of his head.

Sighing and rubbing his forehead, Saruman conceded. "Alright, so we suppose this is true," he said, suspending his disbelief and preventing the meeting from being stuck on trivialities. "Why would Sauron be stationed in southern Mirkwood, and what can we possibly do about it?"

Gandalf stood up tall for emphasis as he said, "Since we know that it i_s_ Sauron at Dol Guldur, it is my belief that he had taken Thrain as a prisoner in order to take from him the last of the dwarven rings he had forged." Stony elven and wizard faces eyed him. For a moment, Saruman's eyes blackened with desire, though no one noticed. "As for what we can do, I think we should try to run him out of Middle Earth before he gains more power. He may yet be weak enough to threaten him, if we work together."

Voices both assented and dissented to his proposal. Saruman was staring darts at him. "_And_," Gandalf added, "Let us not forget about the dragon who has taken over the Lonely Mountain northeast of Mirkwood. It would not be difficult for Sauron to call the evil creature southward to aid him, and we cannot afford for the two to band together." A few murmurs were surprised to learn about the dragon.

Saruman dryly laughed at Gandalf, who stood his ground. "Not only are you asking for us to lend our lives to run off the Necromancer, who _may_ be Sauron, but you also want us to fight a dragon as well?" A few elves chuckled at the idea, though most of the council remained graven at the thought of two serious threats.

"Certainly not," Gandalf answered. "As it would happen, there is a company of dwarves on their way to take care of the dragon for us."

The elves were flustered by this detail. "You expect us to let a bunch of dwarves handle the dragon for us?" an emissary from Mirkwood asked. "Smaug is no newborn serpent. He will eat them alive."

"The company is well equipped for the encounter," Gandalf assured them. "I would not leave the dragon to them if I thought them to be incapable, and they have the added incentive of fighting for their treasure back." He regretted sharing the last part, but it was necessary for persuading those present that the company would annihilate Smaug at any cost.

The emissary nodded his head, as did a few other elves. "Yes, we well know what dwarves will do for treasure. Very well," he conceded.

Faces were contemplative as Gandalf reiterated, "The dragon is taken care of. We must take action again Sauron simultaneously if we are to stand a chance. He is a serious threat that we cannot afford to ignore any longer."

Saruman glanced around the council. "We have heard your case," he said mildly. "Let us vote. Those who dissent?" Only a couple of nays were heard. "Those who consent?" Quiet ayes were heard round table. "The ayes have it." Gandalf took his seat with a small smile, content that he had at last convinced the council to take action. Saruman clasped his hands together and laid them on the table as he solemnly concluded, "To war we go then."


	6. Evil Rises

Morine kept her unspoken word by staying out of Dol Guldur, though she was keeping an eye on it from the top of a small hill in the forest. She nimbly climbed to the top of the tallest tree she could find on the hill and sat on the highest limb that would support her weight. The occasional breeze in her dark fur was delightful, and sometimes she would close her eyes and purr.

Mostly, the movement down below and outside of the fortress vied for her attention. While there was a constant trickle of orcs in and out of the dark gates, it seemed to her that they were up to something. One morning, the complex was too quiet and still for her liking. Morine was sure that something was happening or about to happen. Growling, she hopped down from limb to limb, digging her sharp claws into the scratchy tree bark to maintain her balance. The grass was soft between her paws as she prowled closer to the gates, hunched down low, and listened intently.

"Sorry, Gandalf," she thought as she stared at the fortress a few yards away, hiding in the thick brush. Keeping his promise had never been a priority, but the safety of the forest was her only concern. "What are they up to?" Emerald eyes scanned the black stone walls frantically.

A few uneventful hours passed until the black gates slowly swung wide open. Several dozen orcs in varying degrees of armor loosely trooped in file just a few feet from where she lie hidden, her heart nearly beating out of her chest. These orcs did not look like the ones she usually saw. Their ears were pointy like elves, and they were much taller, larger, and stronger looking. Morine had never seen anything like them. "Is this what they were up to?"

She followed behind them for tens of miles, wondering what mission they had been sent on. This part of the forest was unknown to her, as it was entirely overrun by the evil creatures that the Necromancer brought with him. When the troop stopped for a quick meal, she climbed a tree to check their bearings. Her head poked through the oversized leaves of the canopy, she was shocked to realize that they were nearly to the edge of the forest. A slender coil of smoke rose in the northern sky off to the right. "Beorn!" she thought, feeling a punch in her gut.

By the time she hit the forest floor, the soldiers were moving onward to leave the forest. "No!" She could not let them get to the grasslands. Men had settled a few miles to the south of the exit they were rapidly approaching. "I'm so stupid. Why didn't I stop them sooner?"

Stealthily, she pounced on the orc that was last in line, slicing his Achilles tendon. He did not have time to scream when he fell, and her sharp teeth bit into his neck to open his main artery. He bled out in minutes, and she moved on quickly to the other, spitting out the nasty black blood as she ran.

Her ferocious growl as she tackled the second orc startled the rest of them, and they began running forward, armor clanging loudly. She sliced through the orc's bare chest easily and ran after them. Two orcs stopped and aimed their arrows at her. One missed her, but the other whizzed by her ear. She jumped between the two of them, clawing their necks in midair and running onward. Only four orcs had been taken out when she saw the bodies of the orcs outlined by the bright sunlight from outside the forest.

"Stop!" she wanted to scream, a loud roar erupting from her throat, making them run faster. As the first few entered the openness of the grasslands, they stopped in their tracks. A huge black bear stood before them. Rising on its hind legs, it roared so ferociously that Morine felt a shiver of fear run down her spine, and she saw the bear's lips pulled back over its long, sharp yellow teeth. It raised a gigantic paw and swiped at the closest orc, whose throat spewed black blood. Frozen in fear, the troops began to panic and scramble when the bear growled again.

They scattered in all directions, some towards the bear, and some towards Morine. She took care of the two closest to her, catching glimpses of the bear as it swiftly felled orc after orc. If the animal became a problem, she would deal with it later. For now, it seemed that they had the same goal. Peeling her eyes away from the bear, she bounded after the over half a dozen of the strange soldiers who had retreated back towards Dol Guldur, hoping that the bear would kill the rest of them.

She ran well back into the forest until she was sure that she should have caught up with them already. Pausing to sniff the air in hopes of catching their stench, she heard a twig snap behind her. Too late did she realize that she had walked straight into a trap. "Dammit!" Her feline form moved in slow motion, struggling to turn around and attack.

The first arrow thudded into in her left shoulder, body lurching in surprise. Another struck in her right hindquarters, confirming that she was cornered. Raising her head high, she roared weakly as the pain struck at once. A third hit her ribs, making her sight go black. Morine felt herself slowly falling, body thudding heavily as it hit the bloody grass beneath her. Her left paw was twisted and stuck beneath her weight. Despite her will power, she could not muster the strength to move her body.

Three of the monstrosities towered over her now, laughing cruelly as her green eyes clouded over. One raised his sword to swing down upon her when a growl was heard in the distance, making him recoil. "Leave it," the largest one barked, observing her deep breathing and heavy lids. "Let it bleed to death. We still have the bear to deal with."

As they walked away, the smaller one snarled and tried to slash her gut open as she lay vulnerable, but he was pushed forward by another orc, blade slashing her right oblique. Without pain, she felt the cold, thick metal run through her muscle. A second growl, much closer this time, sent them sprinting. A few moments later, she faintly saw a large black shadow pass over her as it chased after her attackers, and she figured it was the black bear, who must have left her for dead as well. Numbness overtook her as her eyes rolled into the back of her head.

***

Beorn had been keeping a closer eye on the forest since his unexpected guests, especially the southern end. His mind often wandered to the mysterious woman he had taken an instant disliking to, who claimed she lived in southern Mirkwood. There were only a few settlements near the area, and he had confirmed with his friends who lived there that no one they knew fit her description. It was as if she came from nowhere, and it was another slight he added to his list of reasons not to like her.

It was good fortune, if one could call it such, that he was patrolling near the gate to the old southern forest road when several dozen orcs of unfamiliar nature came stumbling blindly into the daylight. The few orcs that had ever made it out of the forest to launch attacks on his friends' villages were usually weak and ill prepared for battle. He noticed that these were equipped with armor and both melee and range weapons. They also looked larger and stronger than the ones he had fought off before.

Children and women outnumbered the male population of the tiny towns, and any threat was a serious one to their well-being. He had to protect them at all costs. Even his capable friends would stand no chance against several dozen of these apparent soldiers. Already in bear form, he had to seize the blinding moment of transitioning into the daylight to intimidate them. He knew how dark the forest was, and he had only seconds before they would continue to slaughter anything in the way.

Rising on all fours, he roared as loudly as he could, even his stomach rumbling deeply. Spittle flew from his mouth, and he tensed up, ready to strike at the orc that was nearest to him. The orc fell quietly atop the golden grass, blood staining the brush around him. He let his fury fuel his fighting. His strong arms swung swiftly at the throats of his enemies, whose swords were too slow for his enraged state. He had annihilated several before noticing another creature that was preying on them as well—a large black feline. It was clearly a creature of the forest, as its fur was dark as night, and even now it chased after the ones who ran back in the way they had come. For a split second, they had made eye contact, and Beorn swore that the green eyes staring back at him were familiar.

Turning back to the threat around him, he shook off the feeling, knowing it was neither possible nor important. The lives of his loved ones were at stake. He ferociously slayed every single orc that had stepped into the sunlight, though it took some time. Without mercy he slashed with his dagger-like claws at any body part he could get to, making sure to leave none alive.

When they were eliminated, he cautiously poked his head inside the gateway. The forest hung heavy and low, darkness swallowing the light just a few yards ahead of him. It was too quiet for his liking. Hoping he would not regret the decision, he ran forward on the overgrown path. The cowards could not have run far, and he had anger left to spare as he roared once more. Eventually, a lump of blackness lay in the path ahead of him, and the distinct smell of blood invaded his nostrils. From this distance, he could tell that it was not orc blood, which had a foul stench to it. He would have time to ponder it later, despite the concerned tug in his heart for the unfortunate creature. He leapt as high as his huge body could over what he recognized as the panther that had run the orcs out of the forest.

The orcs were close enough ahead of him that their footsteps were clearly discernible. He counted seven of them total and knew he could easily take them out. A few were difficult to down, but it was not until the last one was left—perhaps the largest of all the ones he had fought—that he had to struggle. The orc even managed to nick the pad of his paw with his sword while Beorn swiped at him. Several long minutes of tense battle passed, enraging Beorn more. He could not let even one escape. If he knew where they had come from, he would make sure that none would emerge on his land again. Finally, he settled for a low blow: he sank his teeth into the orc's ankle, making him fall and drop his sword. In a second, it was over.

Breathing heavily, Beorn came down from the high of battle. The adrenaline pumped loudly in his ears as his heart rate slowed. Victorious, he turned back homeward. When he came to where the large feline had fallen, he was shocked to find an unconscious Morine where the panther had fallen in battle. Three arrows and a huge gash were slowly bleeding her to death.

Pride argued that he leave the menace to die. In this forest, no one would ever know the better, but the thought was fleeting. He was irreversibly intrigued to find Morine, and Gandalf had considered her a friend. He knew better than to make enemies of a wizard. Looking around cautiously, he shifted effortlessly into his human form. He rolled her onto her back and picked up her dead weight, exhaling slightly from his sliced open palm, though it was nothing compared to the ones Morine had sustained. With heavy, careful steps, he made the long trek home.


	7. Unfamiliar Ceilings

Morinehtar groggily awoke from her stupor. She felt warm and comfortable lying on her back. The ceiling came into focus, revealing not a canopy of dark leaves as she expected but oaken boards and rafters. She found herself mesmerized by the grain of the wood, eyes going foggy again.

"Good. You're awake," a deep familiar voice rumbled beside her.

Turning her head lazily to her right, a strand of midnight hair glued to her sweaty forehead. "Beorn?" she breathed.

He harrumphed in reply as he folded a cold wet washcloth and laid it on her head, making her shake from the iciness, though it felt wonderful.

Taking a few labored breaths, she asked, "Why?"

"Just shut up and rest," he barked before walking out of the room without an answer.

The ceiling spun in circles as she moved her head back to the middle of the pillow, and she fell back asleep in seconds.

When she awoke this time, the room was a bit darker, but he had lit an oil lamp on his nightstand. "Your fever is getting worse," he informed her. "It was only slight this morning." He pulled the warm washcloth from her brow and wet it in the ice water again. Her skin looked even paler than he remembered it being, but she could not see the look of concern engraved on his face. She kept her eyes shut tightly to keep the room still, and she dared not move.

"It's poison," she rasped through dry lips. He said nothing, helping her sit up in the huge bed by propping her up with several pillows. She felt lightheaded but was able to drink the water that he pressed to her lips. Gulping down almost the entire cup, she said again more clearly, "It is poison."

"How?" The host sounded insulted. "I cleaned and dressed your wounds. If there were any poison in them, it would have been withdrawn when I cleaned them."

She shook her head lightly. "No," she said. "It's not your fault." She was angry at herself for letting those orcs outsmart her. "The poison hits the blood stream only a few seconds after contact."

"How do you know this?" Beorn wondered aloud.

"I know all of the plants of the forest," she answered simply. He eyed her suspiciously in the same manner that he had when she first walked into his house. "It is much the same as you and your animals," she intimated.

He growled, but asked, "So what is the cure?"

"The only cure is the plant that it came from," Morine said as she made eye contact with him.

His eyes were stony as he digested the fact, anger slowly rising again. She was in no shape to make the day long trip, and he dreaded leaving his home so soon after the close call with the orcs. Beorn mulled it over with a heavy heart and ran a large hand through his thick dark hair. After a long pause, he finally conceded. "What does it look like?"

"It is a dark purple flower with a silver stripe running down the middle of each petal," she described. "It is hard to miss, should you find it. It is easiest to find in the moonlight, as it shines off the silver stripes. It grows in vines, often climbing the trunks of beech trees." A weak smile graced her face at the mental image of the beautiful but dangerous species. "They're called moon irises."

Beorn huffed at the silly name. "That hardly sounds poisonous."

"It hardly looks poisonous either, which is the point," she snapped. "It also smells sweet. Many animals are tempted by its moonlit glare to suckle from its stamen, but that is where the poison lies. The antidote is to dry the entire flower, grind it, and consume it." She remembered when she had first seen the plant and been enamored with its dual nature and sweet irony—that the antidote and poison where one and the same. Despite the breadth of the forest's flora, it had long been one of her favorites.

Grumbling unhappily, he stood up and went to the kitchen. He came back with a hearty smelling broth. Despite his pride, he spoon fed her the broth, which warmed her entire body and renewed her strength. She was less than thrilled by feeling so vulnerable and weak around him, but she could not possibly take care of herself. It was embarrassing and uncomfortable for them both. Clearing his throat, he asked, "How long does the poison take to… affect?" He did know what the effects of the poison were.

"To kill?" she bluntly finished his question. "Three days, depending on how much gets into the bloodstream. One of the orcs I fought must have tipped his sword in the poison."

"You may get lucky then. The wound in your side was fairly shallow," he noted.

"Five days then," she said. "How long have I been asleep?"

He cursed under his breath. "Two days, plus the day it took to get back here."

She dodged his eyes at the thought of him carrying her the long way home, and the sharp pang of guilt was unmistakeable. "So we have today and tomorrow." Eying him cautiously, she asked, "Did they slash you with a sword as well?" If one was laced with poison, the rest could have been as well.

He unwrapped the bandage from his hand and lifted it to show her, revealing a black gash along the tender inside of his palm, though it was healing nicer than expected. "Should I be worried?"

"Maybe," she concluded.

Beorn bristled and stormed out of the room. Feeling rested and mostly coherent, Morine took the time to look around the large room. The bed was oversized and easily the most comfortable in her memory. It was a four-poster with large, round wooden posts. Looking up, she saw they nearly reached the ceiling and wondered if they indeed were mature trees. Every blanket piled on top of her were made of wool. Morine ran an unsteady hand across the grey surface of the blanket, but the room's temperature quickly set her to shivering. With a jerk she tucked herself back into the warmth and settled in.

Half an hour later, Beorn returned. "I had some things to take care of, but I'm leaving now. The moon will set in a few hours. You'll be taken care of," he said, giving her no time to say a thing.

Once outside, he morphed into a bear and broke into a run. If he made a straight line to the forest, it would only take a couple of hours, though it would mean not being on a trail. He would take that risk, knowing that they had no time to spare. Tomorrow night would be cutting it too close. The animals were taken care of for the night, and the dogs would tend to Morine's well-being in his short absence. The burning of his lungs made him feel alive as he ran with his mouth wide open, muscles straining to go faster. He doubted that his own cut was anything to worry about, but when he had cleaned her own sword wound, he had noticed it was tinged black, dirty streaks running toward her heart.

He knew there was too much at stake to let her die. Not only would Gandalf give him hell for it (the wrath of a wizard is a high price to pay), but there was only one way that he could explain what had happened: Morine had to be a shapeshifter like he was. He knew he had seen those emerald eyes before as he recalled watching her take down several orcs with ease. The possibilities of being related were slim, but he had to know more about her and how she could change her form.

Time flew as the tall trees emerged above the waving grass. Only when he was a few miles past the treeline did he begin to slow down, eyes shifting every which way for a glint of silver. Wandering around Mirkwood at night was not a wise thing to do, or even in the day, and he rushed to find the flower so he could leave as soon as was possible.

Slivers of moonlight poked through the canopy in a few places, but he searched for almost an hour before he found a grove of beech trees, the center-most ones aligned in an imperfect circle. He would think it strange if it were anywhere but Mirkwood. Moonlight poured into the grove, and silver sparkled in all directions. It was a mesmerizing sight for the man of the mountains. Investigating the nearest tree, the scent he caught from the flowers reminded him of the wild honeysuckle that grew in the meadows. The petals looked soft as velvet, the purple was nearly black, and the silver stripes looked like liquid metal in the moonlight.

It was at this moment that he wondered how he would transport it back. He had not brought a bag since running in bear-form with one would be nigh impossible or else slow him down too much to find the antidote before the moon set. Swiping at the vine and cutting it with his claws, Beorn bit the end of the vine where there were no flowers and yanked it down from the tree, determined to drag it the whole way back, though getting through the thick brush in places would prove challenging. There were plenty of flowers on the single vine to make an antidote for them both if necessary. Satisfied, he ran back towards home even faster than he came, anxious to make sure his animals were safe and to begin making the antidote.

He woke Morine around midday after drying the flowers by baking them over the fireplace. Grinding them down into a powder, he stirred them into a mug of lukewarm water. It looked and smelled less than appetizing, and he hoped he would not need to drink the nasty concoction.

Morine's fever had visibly risen even higher. She was struggling to focus her attention on him, falling in and out of consciousness. He propped her up on the pillows again, though she barely registered the movement. After wiping the sweat from her face and rubbing the icy washcloth along her hands and neck as well, he began pouring the antidote down her throat as fast as she could drink it. She choked and sputtered as it spilled in small rivulets out of her mouth. Pouring slower, he said, "I know it's nasty. Just try to drink it," he soothed in a calming voice that his horses knew well. He stopped to give her breaks, noticing she was unable to breathe and drink simultaneously. Her stomach grumbled loudly as she continued to drink without complaint. "Good."

When the mug was empty, he set it on his small bedside table. Checking her forehead, his brows knit at the furnace-like heat. He gently touched her hands to find they were cold and clammy. She looked as white as parchment, hair soaked in sweat. It would take time before she was strong enough to bathe and he could redress her wounds if necessary. He checked the arrow wound on her left shoulder to see how it was healing. The deep gash would leave a scar, but the blood had clotted well, and it was closing up. His homemade salve was aiding the process.

Beorn grabbed the woolen blanket he had been using while sleeping on his couch the last few evenings and placed it on top of Morine. It was the last of the blankets in the house, and he waited for her to sweat the fever out. He took his place in his usual chair beside her bed. Rubbing his hand over his heavy brow, he told himself that he had tried his best and had even gone farther out of his way than was necessary to help her. In the coldest hours before daybreak, he pondered why he had saved her at all. Staring at her sickly face, he wondered, "Who are you, Morine?"


	8. Fireside Chats

In the wee hours of the morning, her fever broke. The sweat slowly dried up, and Morine shoved the blankets off of her, feeling stifled. The room felt stuffy and still. Finally, she could breath. Beorn was not in his usual spot beside the bed, and she began to get her bearings. Her memory of the last few days was cloudy as she wandered in and out of consciousness, falling in and out of fevered dreams. The moon had set, leaving the room pitch black. While she did not feel tired, she had no energy to get out of the soft, warm bed that was big enough for three people. Kicking the thick, wool blankets into a pile at the foot of the bed, she pulled the thin cotton sheets over and tried to fall asleep once more.

When she woke for good in the morning and she tried to climb out of the tall bed, her legs felt too weak to support her. She clung to the bed as she tried to stand up straight, waiting for the circulation to return to her unused limbs and getting irritated by the feeling of weakness. Luckily, Beorn was not here to witness the spectacle, as she had surely been humiliated enough by the situation.

Feeling stronger, she decided to change into the large grey cotton shirt he had laid out on the chair for her. Her black clothing would need to be cleaned and mended from the battle. In the faint light of dawn that escaped the thick woolen curtains covering the windows, she could see an ugly black scar running down her right oblique, nearly making her gasp, though she knew to expect it from the poison of a moon iris. Investigating her arrow wounds on her left shoulder, right thigh, and ribs, she was pleased to find that they were healing nicely, though the one that hit her ribs left an ugly bruise. Touching it tenderly, she realized that the rib was possibly fractured but counted her lucky stars that it had hit a rib and not slid between two of them to puncture a vital organ. She was fortunate indeed—most of all for Beorn's help.

Pulling the shirt over her head, it reached to her knees like a dress, though it surely was a snug fit for the huge man. Feeling a bit silly, she drifted out into the drafty hall. Cold biscuits and thick spun honey lay out on the table for her, but the host was nowhere to be seen. Though the biscuits were beginning to stale, she was glad to have solid food for the first time in days. The honey was better than she remembered, and she eagerly spun globs onto her butter knife before spreading it on the biscuits. She had consumed several before she realized there was nothing to wash it down with. Morine grabbed another biscuit to eat while searching for a kitchen or someplace to find water and quench her thirst.

Next to the bedroom door she had come out of was another door. Opening it, she was delighted to find an oversized bathroom with a gigantic wooden bath tub that she intended to make use of after finishing her meal, since the smell of her sweat hung in the air. Other than the two doors on this wing of the house, there was an open doorway on the opposite wing that she went to check now.

What she saw caught her off guard: Beorn was baking. He was kneading fresh dough to make bread for dinner. She quietly leaned against the doorway to observe his methods. With intuition, he added a few drops of water or pinches of flour to the dough until it was perfect. He worked it in his hands until it was in a large ball and set it on waxed parchment to rise throughout the day. With crafty fingers, he made a ridge down the middle of the dough to later add herbs and cheese to the center before baking it.

When he turned to the counter behind him to begin another loaf, he saw Morine standing there with a smug smile. "What?" he roared, appearing rather embarrassed at being caught.

She shook her head, somewhat disappointed that he had not jumped or flinched in surprise. "Good morning to you too," she halfway smiled, crossing her arms.

He suddenly realized, with a pang, how attractive she was, especially wearing his shirt. She was looking much healthier this morning; her face was now a soft ivory. The neckline hung low on her square shoulders, revealing defined collarbones. Her hips gently curved into the negative space of the doorway, and toned calves peaked beneath the shirt's bottom hem. He cleared his throat and looked away, hoping she had not noticed his lingering gaze. "What do you need?" he asked, just wanting her to go away.

Swallowing her last bite of the biscuit, she said dryly, "Water."

He poured her a cup and handed it to her. "When you're ready, there is a bathroom in the other wing. I'll have my friends prepare a bath for you."

"Thank you," she said wholeheartedly, meaning it for more than the water and bath.

"You're welcome," he grumbled quietly, ignoring her intense gaze and returning to the bread.

She took the hint and left him to his work. While the horses and dogs carried buckets of hot water to the bathtub, she wandered the grounds, enjoying the strong breezes that occasionally gusted, ruffling the shirt. The variety of wildlife—both flora and fauna—was unexpected, though she realized that life flourished easily outside of the dark forest. Only the most resilient of life forms could survive in the harsh environment she called home. Evolution had left a limited number of twisted species with unique characteristics, such as the moon lily. The life she observed here in the grasslands was plentiful but simple and comparatively harmless.

Finding the valley that she and Bilbo had shared their secrets in, she realized that she missed the friendly little hobbit. Sharing his secret with Gandalf stung her heart with guilt for a minute, but she buried it.

Walking back into the house, she could smell the bath salts from the hall. Excited to be clean, she eagerly entered the bathroom and stripped off Beorn's oversized shirt, setting her feet in the tub. With a grimace, she jerked them out again. The water was still scalding, and the fever had been so high that Morine dreaded to be submersed in heat again so soon. The sunlight from the several windows sparkled off the ripples her fingers made on the water's surface, and she studied her tired reflection. Ten minutes later, the water had cooled to a lukewarm, and she slipped in with a sigh. Her long hair floated like a dark halo around her, and she thought she could lay there for the rest of her life and be content. Such luxuries of a civilized life had long been forgotten when she had abandoned her journey eastward, yet they tempted her now as she floated serenely and let her mind empty.

When she was thoroughly scrubbed and dried, she put more salve on her wounds. Beorn had left the salve on the wash basin for her, proving his thoughtfulness. Noticing how high the arrow struck on her thigh, she blushed at the thought of Beorn tending the wound while she had been unconscious, but it was well beyond the realm of modesty. She was reminded of his impertinent gaze earlier that afternoon while she stood in the kitchen doorway. It was the first time—that she knew of—that a man had looked at her that way. The look would have gone unregistered if she had not seen it between others before. She pulled the grey shirt back on and cast the thoughts aside. Toweling her hair dry, Morine found a pine brush with horse hair bristles to tame it. Without her usual tie, she had no choice but to leave it down. The room had long since dehumidified by the time she stepped out of the bathroom.

Supper that evening was a hearty vegetable soup with the bread Beorn had made that morning. The domesticity of the seemingly wild man seemed never ending. Earlier in the day, after her bath, she had found a sewing needle and white cotton thread in his nightstand that she used to mend her clothing. Cleaned and wearing her own clothes, Morine felt normal again despite the awkward silence at the table. The evening was growing cold as summer was fading into autumn, and Beorn lit the fireplace in the center of the long wall across from the veranda.

The silent supper was cleaned up by the animals, and Morine took her large glass of blackberry merlot with her to the couch by the fireside to warm up as the hall grew steadily chillier. Staring into the flames, she wished she had a book to read or some other entertainment. She was so mesmerized that she barely felt Beorn sit down on the other side of the couch.

As he joined her company, he felt at a loss of what to do. Entertaining many guests had been easy: they simply entertained themselves. With only one unfamiliar guest, he was thrust into the awkward role of a true host, and there nothing to do but talk. "What are you thinking about?" his deep voice rumbled besides her, drawing her from her reverie.

She slowly pulled her eyes from the flames, not expecting his polite intrusion. "Nothing." There was a pause filled with the crackling sound of the fire. "Dinner was delicious."

"Mm-hm," he murmured, leaving another stiff silence that pleasantries could not soften. "Are you feeling better?" he asked, though the answer was obvious.

"Yes, thanks to you," she said before sipping her wine. The crickets were chirping less frequently tonight.

"I don't understand," he finally said with a heavy exhale. "Why were you running the orcs out of the forest?"

Green eyes flashed angrily as she corrected, "I wasn't running them out. I was chasing them down, trying to keep them from leaving."

"And a good job you did," he said sarcastically, flustering her more.

She growled in frustration. "I had slain several before… wait. Are you—" The question seemed too silly to ask, but there was no other way Beorn could have found her. "Were you the black bear?"

They locked eyes. "Yes. Just as you were the panther, I assume" he slowly answered. The unasked question of "how" hung in the air between them. "I'm not sure if I learned it or could always do it, but I have been able to shift shapes as far back as I can remember, long before I relocated here from the mountains." He paused to take a long draught from his mead. "You?"

Playing with the stem of her wine glass, she reluctantly said, "I—I, um." She rubbed her forehead and felt his stare. She sighed. "I'm a wizard." When she looked up to see his reaction, he brown eyes danced in the firelight, and he laughed heartily, the sound echoing around the empty room.

"Are you now?" he asked, seeming rather pleased with the answer. He laughed again. "Now I know two wizards!" He raised his tankard for another drink, and she drank deeply from her wine and stared at the flames. "Like Gandalf?"

"Yes," she said, rather annoyed and hoping he would refrain from endless questions.

"That's how you know each other," he smiled as the pieces clunked together. "Friends, eh?" She did not dignify his prodding with a comment. "How old are you?" he inquired, wondering if all wizards were ancient like his old acquaintance.

"Old" was all she said between frequent drinks, hoping the alcohol would take the edge off of her nerves. Never in Middle Earth had she confessed her nature to anyone, though she was certain that Cirdan had known when she and Romen arrived at the Grey Havens.

After a pause, he asked, "Why a panther?"

She shrugged her shoulders. "I don't know. To climb trees, I suppose, since they offer the most safety in the forest."

"Except for those pesky spiders," he noted.

"Except for the spiders," she echoed. "I hate those things." They shared a nervous smile before Morine looked into her wine glass that was nearly empty, noticing that her heart was randomly racing. "So, why did you relocate?" she asked, hoping to shift the attention to him.

It was clearly a tender subject for him as his expression tightened in pain. "The goblins," he said darkly, finishing his mead and placing the empty mug on the floorboards. Morine though that he would be able to handle goblins since he handled the augmented orcs the other day. Seeing her curious face, he explained, "There's too many of them. I tried long ago, when I was younger, to fight them off and get them to leave, but it was futile. After I lost my family in the battles, I gave up and left."

Morine had not practiced the art of consolation, and she struggled with what to say. "I lost my only family too," she admitted. Beorn was listening intently. "My brother left me in Mirkwood, and I've been living there ever since." Looking up from her glass, she noticed how close they now were to each other. Brown eyes met green as they inched closer. She felt the warmth radiating from his body as he gently placed his large hand on her lower thigh. As soon as she closed her eyes, smelling the mead on his breath—their lips an inch apart—a loud knocking at the veranda door startled them apart.

"Shit," Beorn cursed under his breath.


	9. Jagged Little Pill

_Author's Note: Sorry for the great delay everyone. My laptop decided to die on me, and of course I didn't have my story saved to my thumb drive when it crashed. However, I was able to retrieve it. I could provide other excuses all day, but aren't we all busy? Thank you for taking the time to read this tale._

* * *

While Saruman and Radagast helped the elves prepare for an ambush on Dol Guldur, Gandalf left the Council on the pretenses of returning Beorn's horse, which he insisted was of the utmost importance. When he arrived at the homestead, he placed the horse in the stable to rest, though Beorn usually let them run wild. Walking up to the house, he could see through the little window in the door that the fireplace was lit. It was only when he was right upon the door, hand poised to knock, that he noticed Beorn was seated by the fire and chatting with a guest. It was another moment before he identified the stranger as Morine. Despite himself, he watched as the two leaned closer and closer toward each other before convincing himself that he must immediately disrupt them. He knew too well how prideful they both were, and if he knocked after they kissed, they would be wretchedly embarrassed. To save them from what would be an already awkward interruption, he quickly rapped on the door to signal his presence.

Beorn was swift on his feet to answer the door. He scoffed at the bothersome old man who seemed delighted to have unintentionally—or so he thought—destroyed the intimate moment. "What are you doing here at this hour?" he asked grumpily.

It was disconcerting how twinkly Gandalf's eyes were. "I thought I was welcome back at any time," he replied smugly.

"So you are," Beorn grumbled, ever the reluctant host.

"I took the leisure of stabling the horse you lent me," he explained as he stepped past the large man into the hall. "He did wonderfully, by the way. All my thanks to you again."

The man slammed his door shut in response.

"Gandalf," Morine gasped in surprise at the visitor. "Twice in a fortnight. What a pleasure," she intimated with a strange mixture of sincerity and sarcasm.

"And by what unfortunate event did you get dragged back here again?" he asked her curiously as he replaced Beorn's seat on the couch. Morine looked over her shoulder to glance at Beorn before he went into the kitchen, not knowing where to begin. "I'll go first," Gandalf said, sensing that she was not ready to answer. "The White Council has agreed to take action against the Necromancer."

"That is excellent news," Morine said excitedly, waiting for the details.

"Yes. They are currently preparing for the attack," he informed, "And I think we stand a good chance. The ambush is scheduled for a month from today."

"So soon," she breathed as Beorn handed Gandalf a mug of hot cider to warm him up.

Beorn took a seat in his oversized armchair closer to the fire, nursing his fresh tankard of mead. He listened as Gandalf said, "I still need you to hold up your end of the deal."

"A deal I never agreed to," she quickly reminded the old man.

Gandalf did not seem to mind so much. "It is only fair since I took care of your problem."

"Will hopefully take care of," Morine corrected with a stony glare that made him chuckle at her pessimism. "Why do you want me stay away from there so badly?"

"I have my reasons," he said vaguely, pointedly watching the fire to avoid her gaze. Eventually, he prodded, "The dragon."

"I'm not buying it," she said crossly. "The dwarves were already going to take care of it for you before I ever showed up here."

He replied, "True, but they could use the help." She shook her head at his insufficient explanations. With a sigh, he set his mug down beside him. She could see his spirits were sinking and knew she was right that there was more to it than he had told her. "The Necromancer is a much bigger threat than even you know."

Quietly, she said, "I doubt it," though her run-in with the orcs came to mind.

He knew he had no other way to convince his stubborn cohort. Reluctantly, Gandalf grumbled, "It is Sauron." Only the sound of the crackling fire could be heard beneath the weight of that name.

An ominous feeling settled into the room as all three gazed toward the fire in the hearth. "How do you know?" Morine asked.

Taking a sip of cider, he said, "I knew from the moment I stepped foot into Dol Guldur years ago. Any doubt I had absolved when I found Thrain was taken prisoner. You were certainly correct in the breadth of the evil seeping from that place. Sauron is the source. It is unquestionable."

As the two wizards considered the meaning of this threat. Beorn began rubbing his thick beard in thought, brushing the foreboding feeling away. "Sauron. Why does that sound familiar?" his voice rumbled.

Uneasily, Morine explained, "He was the deity responsible for the downfall of Numenor." Beorn squinted as he struggled to recall the legendary island that was wiped off the face of Arda, an ancient tale he had heard as a young boy. She turned to Gandalf and said, "Is that why you wanted me to stay away? This is the very reason we were sent to Middle Earth, to protect it from the same disastrous fate."

"I know that," he said more serenely than he felt. "That is why I need your help with the dragon." Morine rolled her eyes, feeling that he was simply being protective. "There is the great possibility that Sauron could call upon the dragon to assist him in resisting the Council. We cannot afford for that to happen."

She remembered his comment about having all of their beans in the same pot and realized that he meant it for the other side. "You're right, but," she hesitantly conceded, "What can I do to help?"

Gandalf seemed puzzled. "Is it true, then, that you have lost your magic?"

"Not entirely," Morine said, shifting her eyes to a surprisingly stoic Beorn. "I can shape shift."

"Oh?" he said, raising his eyebrows. Morine had expected him to be more critical of her usage of magic.

"Into a panther," Beorn's baritone finally chimed into the conversation.

With a smile, Gandalf said, "Interesting. And why a panther?"

"I don't know," Morine snapped defensively. No one had cared before. "I learned how to do it and that was the form I found myself in."

Enjoying his hot cider, Gandalf thought to himself how appropriate it was. She was observant, temperamental, and protective—much like Beorn, in fact. Sipping slowly, he wondered if that was what had brought the two closer: Beorn learning that he was not the only shape shifter in Middle Earth. He imagined that he had gotten quite lonely over the years, though loneliness was certainly not enough cause for the prideful man to take interest in a woman. He was certain his—dare he say it?—friend was not dependent in nature. As a constant wanderer, he understood the allure of companionship. "How did you know about it?" he asked Beorn, curious as to how he discovered something about Morine that even he did not know.

Beorn was unaware that the wizard had asked Morine to stay away from Dol Guldur, and so he began, "A few days ago I was patrolling the land between here and the villages in the south. When I was near the edge of the forest, several dozen orcs—heavily armored—ambushed me." Gandalf listened intently to the report, wishing for a moment that the straight-forward host held the same flair for storytelling as he did. "I downed several of them before I saw a panther was attacking them from behind." He jerked a thumb toward Morine.

"Orcs?" Gandalf asked, looking at Morine. "From Dol Guldur, no doubt?"

Sinking into the couch like a scolded child, Morine confirmed, "Yes. They were troops sent from Dol Guldur." Turning to Beorn, she continued, "That I would have eliminated sooner, had I known where they were destined."

Beorn grumbled, "They were armored, woman. Where did you think they were going?" His temper was beginning to flare at the memory of the threat to his friends and their families in small, nearly helpless villages.

Morine felt her cheeks burn. "I have never seen orcs like that before," she said intensely. "And for your information, they are often sent out deep into the forest to patrol and expand their territory. All I did was observe their movements."

Gandalf's eyes blazed at her, but he did not reprimand her for watching the fortress. "What made these orcs different from the usual ones?" he asked.

"They were armored," Beorn reiterated, irritating her.

"They were also much larger and stronger than the usual type. There is something different about this kind," she said. "I cannot explain what it is, but they were much smarter as well."

Gandalf asked what she hoped he would not. "How were they smarter?"

With a defeated sigh, Morine carefully pulled her shirt off her shoulder to reveal the deep arrow wound as Gandalf ran a gentle finger over the ugly scar, concern etched deeply in his old face. "It is healing nicely," he offered, noticing how uncomfortable she felt with the vulnerable display.

"I ran straight into a trap they set," she finally answered. Beorn nodded his head, remembering how he found her lying on the forest floor. "I have never seen so many orcs work together to accomplish a goal without tearing each apart. They were working as a unit."

"Hmmmm," Gandalf thought aloud. "This is grave news. I will have to tell the Council about this new development so they can plan accordingly. Tackling Sauron will be difficult enough without his prepared soldiers to get in the way. Since you can shape shift, is there any other way you can use your magic?" he tried to assess.

"Well," she said, eying Beorn carefully, "there is one other way." Both men perked up in curiosity as she prepared her body and mind to control her whimsical magic. "It's not much," she tried to excuse already, but Gandalf would not let her back out. He had to know her potential.

"It took years to refine my firecraft," he pointed out to her. "Practice makes perfect, as they say."

"I haven't been practicing," she grumbled. Nevertheless, she placed her hands together and closed her eyes. When they finally felt hot and tingly, she slowly pulled her palms an inch apart, revealing white-blue kinetic energy that danced from finger to finger and shot across the space between her palms as she spread them farther and farther apart. Slowly opening her eyes, she gasped at the brightness. The entire hall seemed illuminated, as the energy was much more concentrated that she usually produced. Beorn's and Gandalf's enamored faces were drawn to the orb of light like moths.

"Lightning," Gandalf breathed, clearly impressed. She had grown the ball to the same size she had shown Bilbo, carefully keeping it under control, which was no easy task. Finally, she began to relax her fingers and let it slowly fizzle out, energy still crackling in the air where the orb had been, threatening to make her spine tingle. "Splendid!" Gandalf declared with a grin. "I knew you were capable."

Morine's body slumped into the couch in exhaustion, feeling the sweat beading on her recently washed body. Catching her breath, she said, "I have not practiced." She was glad to see that Beorn's warm brown eyes did not greet her with fear but acceptance.

"That is a not a problem," Gandalf decided. "We have two weeks to practice and refine your craft."

"Two weeks?" she repeated, staring at him in disbelief. She had possessed her magic for ages without mastering it, and yet he expected her to master it so quickly.

"Yes, of course," he said matter-of-factly. " If the attack on Dol Guldur is set for within a month from now, and it takes you two weeks to get to the Lonely Mountain, then that gives us two weeks to train you." Morine was gaping at the grey-clad crazy man. She was drained from a few minutes of making a small orb and could not stomach the thought of doing much grander things with such a capricious element. Chuckling at her look of disbelief, he demanded, "We shall begin tomorrow morning."


	10. Battle Ready

Beorn was less than pleased at the unexpected arrangement. It was now a few weeks ago that he had returned the house to its usual state before the company, and he had thoroughly enjoyed having his place to himself again. Having to take care of Morine because he did not really have a choice was somewhat burdensome. The one person he had wanted to never see again was back in his house and using his bed. He had slept on the couch for the several nights that he took care of her, but now that the antidote had taken affect, he was gladly claiming his bedroom back. While Gandalf and Morine made their plans, he gathered the extra blankets that she had kicked to the foot of the bed and set them in his armchair for them to use. The horses instinctively set up a cot for the extra guest, as they had when the dwarves were visiting.

Laying in his bed that night, he was disturbed by Morine's smell that lingered in his sheets from her feverish sweating. It reminded him of sandalwood. He thought of the kiss they had nearly shared but an hour ago, and he found himself aggravated. He cursed Gandalf for interrupting them, and he cursed Morine for arousing him. Falling asleep was proving much more difficult than usual as he wondered about the softness of her lips while breathing in her scent.

It was nearly afternoon when he awoke the next day. His sleep schedule was wrecked from two late nights—one of searching for moon lilies in Mirkwood and another of fireside chatting. He usually went to sleep with the sun and woke before it. He also usually slept quite heavily and woke refreshed, but it was not the case today. Cold coffee and a mostly empty bowl of berries sat on the table in the dining hall, as his guests had clearly helped themselves in his absence to whatever they could find. Running his fingers through his thick black hair, he wondered how things were changing between he and Morine as he recalled her catching him cooking. In his dreams he had kissed her a thousand ways, but this morning, he dreaded her presence and kicked himself for such intimate thoughts. He went about his usual business around the lands that morning, pointedly ignoring her as she trained with Gandalf.

The two were practicing in the same valley that she had revealed her powers to Bilbo. Summoning the element was easy enough, but controlling it was the issue. Lightning was fickle, but so was the fire that Gandalf had learned to command.

"The first step will be summoning your element with as little effort as possible," the gray wizard said. "And the best way to do that is repetition."

Morine knew she would be exhausted that night. It would take immense effort to turn her lightning into a weapon. They spent hours after their makeshift breakfast focusing on summoning faster and better. By the time they called it a day and headed in for supper, she could focus on the orb without initially closing her eyes and keeping her palms together. A small step, but she and Gandalf were happy with the progress; she could manifest the lightning by simply staring into the space between her palms now. It was taking longer than her usual way, but it would be safer to use in the presence of a dragon, when closing her eyes for even a second could cost her life.

At supper, Morine and Beorn were careful to ignore each other and converse politely for the sake of Gandalf and for the hope that he could not feel how the tension between them had changed since the last time they were together. Once her head hit the couch pillow late that evening, Morine was thrust into a heavy sleep—the best she had gotten while under Beorn's roof.

For a fortnight, the two spent the long, late summer days training in the heat. The lightning she could produce was gaining potency. She could eventually create defined bolts by grasping the white-hot heat in her hands and shooting them like spears. An alternate manifestation that Gandalf had suggested was a lightning whip. Shaping the energy and concentrating it into such a defined form had proved the most difficult part, but to call upon the element had become as easy as thinking about it. They were both satisfied and impressed with how quickly her skills were progressing, though she paid for it mentally and physically.

One morning at breakfast, Gandalf said unexpectedly, "I am leaving this afternoon."

Beorn grunted into his milk, but Morine looked surprised. "So soon?" she asked. "I thought the assault was not for another fortnight?"

"As it is," he agreed.

Morine shook her head at his persistent ambiguity and finished her meal. The wizards had bonded in the last two weeks, and she had come to know his ways well. He was surely up to something, but she decided not to pry. With an empty plate, she strode outside to their usual training spot. The routine, though taxing, was a comfort.

Gandalf quietly watched her go through the motions for a few hours. Suddenly, a fireball flew past her head and slammed into the ground a few yards in front of her. Luckily, the area had already been scorched and leveled from the training. Morine turned a scowling face to the mischievous man behind her. "You could have warned me," she growled.

His blue eyes twinkled annoyingly. "Are you not training for a battle?" he teased. "You must be ready for an attack at any time." The finer points of combat had been skipped in favor of developing her raw powers, but he chose this final time to test her inherent skills. He hoped that centuries of living in the threat-filled forest had strengthened her and sharpened her reflexes.

In response, she thrust a lightning bolt toward his head, which he dodged as it crackled over his shoulder and thundered into the dirt behind him, making him chuckle. "Bring it, old man," Morine challenged him.

"You are just as old as I am," he reminded her.

Beorn was hidden in the brush and could hear the exchange from where he was seated. "How old is she?" he wondered not for the first time. She looked decades younger than Gandalf, though he was not sure how old either of them were.

They had taken battle stances about ten yards apart and began hurtling lightning and fire at each other with dazzling speed. Beorn's head tossed side to side, tracking each attack. Heat built in the atmosphere, raising the humidity as electricity charged the particles. The hairs on his arms began to stand on end, and he backed away from the dangerous fight. Morine was looking singed in places, and Gandalf jerked when she managed to land a bolt on him, but they seemed to be nearly equally matched.

After an hour of intense sparring, the two sweat-soaked wizards called it quits. They stood breathless in the ring of charred earth, and Beorn was grateful that they had not set the dry brush on fire. The spring had brought paltry rains across the mountains, and the conditions were nearly drought-like. Gandalf was keeled over, huffing and puffing, bones aching.

"Are you sure you have to leave tonight?" Morine asked him as she stretched.

"Oh, yes. I do not have much say in the matter," he replied. "Although I could certainly use a good washing beforehand, if you don't mind, Beorn."

The tall man emerged from the thick grass and into the clearing, wearing a scowl. "And I suppose you'll be wanting to borrow my horse again?" he said, rather agitated at the guest who was very near to wearing out his welcome.

He shook his head. "No, I will not be requiring his services, as there is no danger of being late." Gandalf headed back to the house for his much desired bath, and Beorn and Morine followed him inside without a word.

While the wizard washed up, Morine began packing a small bag with rations for the trip to the Lonely Mountain as Beorn loomed observantly in the kitchen. "I leave tomorrow," she announced, noticing his fleeting expression—a cross between pain and sadness—that she could not recognize. As she packed, she thought of the sweet little hobbit Bilbo and wondered how the company's journey was going.

She followed Gandalf outside when he was ready to say goodbye. It was late afternoon, and the sun washed everything a deep gold. "Thank you for all you have done," she said with a firm handshake. "I wish I could go with you."

"I know," he said, patting her shoulder. "Trust that you leave your home in good hands, Morinehtar."

Nodding solemnly, she wished she could sufficiently express her gratitude—for the training and for eradicating the evil of Dol Guldur. Unexpectedly, he gave her another reason. Seemingly from thin air, he produced a quiver of black leather richly embroidered with silver thread, but despite its beauty, the arrows themselves were more stunning: they were entirely made of sterling silver, from tip to shaft to nock. Only the fletching was black feathers rather than silver. Despite her sensibilities, Morine's eyes watered as she inspected the generous gift and could think of nothing to say as her throat clenched.

Gandalf grinned at her speechlessness. "I thought you would find it useful in the near future. Silver is the most conductive metal, and you will find it even easier and faster to concentrate the lightning within the arrow," he explained. "Of course, it has been alloyed with copper to make it stronger."

"Thank you," Morine's voice rasped.

"You are quite welcome, though they would be rather useless without this," Gandalf said as he handed her a large bow of elegantly carved ebony. He chuckled at the younger wizard who had her hands full. Eying Beorn, he advised, "I would not practice using them here. This place is like a tinderbox." Beorn grunted in agreement and crossed his arms impatiently. "Well, it is high time I take my leave. Beorn," he said, nodding to the host, "My thanks, again." Beorn grumbled irritably in return, wanting the bothersome man to leave him be already. Clapping Morine on the shoulder, he said, "Goodbye my friend. Until we meet again." His eyes twinkled, knowing that he would reunite with her much sooner than she would expect.

The woman set her gifts on the ground to wrap one arm around him in a quick, stiff hug. "Thank you," she reiterated. "And may the Valar favor you."

"And may they favor you," he echoed. "Slaying a dragon is no easy task." With a lingering smile, he headed southward , unknowingly taking the very same path that Beorn had carried Morine back from battle.

Solemnly returning to the house, Morine lay her new weaponry next to her packed bag. She jumped at the sudden feel of Beorn's warm hand on her shoulder. "Come. I have something to share with you," he said solemnly.

She followed him out the veranda and onward. Past the stables, she watched in awe as he suddenly shifted into the form of a huge black bear. It was certainly the same bear that she had seen in battle, but she was amazed nonetheless. He shifted effortlessly, as though he changed forms often. She wondered how she looked when she herself transformed and marveled at his boldness. The act of shifting was a private one to her, and observing his own transformation was surprisingly intimate.

Beorn had begun walking westward into the quickly setting sun when he stopped to wait for her. Turning his head to look at her, she understood that this was not what he wanted to share, but he intended for her to follow.

Despite her inhibitions, she shifted into her panther form, feeling a wave of relief. She found her humanoid state, though her original one, was rather limiting. The familiar feel of grass between her paw pads and her sharpened feline senses were comforting. Heart thumping, she followed the bear into the brush to an unknown destination.


	11. Atop the Carroack

Morine followed Beorn for miles as the Misty Mountains rose steadily on the horizon. The shadows were growing longer despite the persistent heat of the day. Finally, the sound of running water filled the air, and the plants grew greener as they got closer to the Great River.

In the middle of the swift, wide stream protruded a gigantic rock. Morine had never seen the place before, though centuries ago she had crossed the same river at a point much farther south. It looked more like a mountain, standing authoritatively over the low laying plains surrounding it. She watched Beorn easily swim through the current and climb onto a flattened portion of the rock, black fur matted down with the weight of the water. He shifted back into his human form, beard and woolen clothes dripping, as he stood and waited for her to cross.

The icy water nearly paralyzed her as she plunged into the river, cursing herself for not checking the temperature first. Only now did she realize that it flowed from the north, and she guessed from the temperature that it must be from the frozen heights of either the Misty or Grey Mountains. Arriving as happily as any other skin-soaked feline would, she pried herself up onto the ledge and nearly collapsed in exhaustion, bones shaking. Shifting wearily into a human, she was sopping wet and frustrated at the large man who was guffawing jovially at her annoyance, warm brown eyes dancing in cruel humor. "It's not funny," she said stonily, following him up a long and twisting staircase that was formed into the rock with nearly chiseled precision. Morine wondered if he had made the staircase himself, if it existed naturally, or if some other person before him had made it.

Beorn waited patiently for her atop the rock, hardly out of breath from the hefty climb. When she had made the last few steps, she stopped in her tracks. As impressive as the rock was from the bottom, it was nothing compared to the view it offered from the top. To the south lay golden fields of grass as far as she could see, blowing in the waves of wind. To the west, the sun's rays peaked over the snowy tops of the Misty Mountains, their ridges and valleys in high contrast as they ran as far southward and northward as she could see, like a divisive spine running through Middle Earth. To the north, the lands were already being cast into shadow. Finally, to the east lay her beloved home, a forest of never-ending trees, nearly as imposing as the mountains that lay opposite of them. The river flowed between the two forces like a middle point.

For the second time that day, Morine stood breathless in the absence of words. Beorn stood near the edge, hands set squarely on his hips in unabashed pride as he took in the view as well. "Amazing, isn't it?" his deep voice boomed at her.

Dumbfounded, she nodded her head and walked toward the edge to sit beside where he stood. "Wow," she whispered, drinking in the rich colors before her.

"I call it the Carrock," he informed her, referring to the mountain-like rock.

"I like it," she said. The distance of the visibility was astonishing, and she wondered how far they would be able to see were the forest and mountains not so invasive. The last rays of sunlight sparkled on the water as it raced off to the south.

She turned to Beorn as he smiled at her. "When I first moved here from the mountains, I discovered this place," he began, slowing taking a seat beside her near the edge. "I'm not sure if you noticed, but there is a small cave at the base of the rock. For a while, I lived here. I was young at the time, and alone. I thought the swiftly moving water would protect me, and it did until I grew enough to risk leaving."

"Why did you move from the mountains?" she asked in curiosity.

He sighed and looked over to their snowy peaks. "It was not by choice," he said darkly, a shadow cast upon his face. "Damn goblins." She waited patiently for him to continue, noticing that for once the silence between them could pass for comfortable. "My family lived there for many generations before the goblins began creeping up the western slopes. We thought that the mountains would keep them on that side, but they seem determined to conquer and take everything they can reach. It was not long before they had tunneled through to the eastern side. They waged skirmishes against my kin, but while we kept them at bay for years, they dug more and more tunnels and grew in numbers, slowly overtaking us."

Morine was becoming intoxicated with the soothing sound of his deep voice, and she wished that he would tell more stories.

After a pause, he continued, "Then one day, the Great Goblin appeared. He led the horde in an organized attack against us, and we were surrounded on all sides. I lost all of my family that day," he finished heavily.

"How did you survive?" Morine quietly asked, turning to look at his face.

Beorn shrugged his shoulders. "Luck? I don't remember much. It happened so fast. Everything is a blur. I remember dodging the goblins around me and running downhill into the trees. Next thing I knew, I was here," he said, slapping a palm on the rock.

Her eyes were wet with unshed tears when she softly said, "I'm sorry." They sat in the peace, listening to the birds go quiet and looking at the golden plains that stretched before them. Finally, she offered, "I lost my brother." Beorn set his warm brown gaze on her pale face. "He came with me from the west, over those same mountains." She gestured toward them. "We were always together, just the two of us. When we got to Greenwood the Great—as it was called before Mirkwood—I fell in love with it. I never wanted to leave, but Romen was intent on continuing our journey eastward." She shook her head at the thought of his stubbornness. "We argued about it for a long time, though I accompanied him to the eastern edge of the forest. When I saw the barren landscape that lay beyond it, I felt it could offer me nothing, but he was even more determined to see what was on the other side of it." Much softer, she said, "So he left."

Beorn suppressed the sudden urge to wrap an arm around her shoulders to comfort her. His own family was a tight knit group, a clan, that would never abandon one of their own. The idea made his stomach turn and temper flare. For a woman to be left alone in that forest, even before the Necromancer's arrival, she would have to be strong and capable, though he had already known that Morinehtar was such a woman. She was so unlike any other woman he had met.

Suddenly, she said, "That is why I am determined to see this evil eradicated from Mirkwood." He could see the passion burning in her eyes. "The forest is my home. I cannot lose it." A knot stuck in her throat. She thought of Gandalf and the weapons he had given her to aid her quest, and she wished she had given him something else in return. "I pray that Gandalf succeeds in toppling Dol Guldur. For too long, I have witnessed the power of the Necromancer growing, overtaking everything in its path." Clenching her fists, she predicted, "He will not stop until the whole of Middle Earth is torn asunder." Beside her, Beorn nodded. "And if it means that I must go kill a dragon—Smaug, they call him?—then so be it. I will do whatever it takes."

"I would do no less for my own home," he agreed. "Though I have lost my home to the goblins, I swear that I will one day return to take back the land of my forefathers. Until that day, this land," he said sweeping an arm across the amber grain and green brush, "is my home, and I will not allow it to be taken."

His fiery warm brown eyes met her cool dark green ones. Pulling from his gaze, she took in the landscape again. Every part of Middle Earth that they could see—the mountains, the plains, the forest—was considered their home, and they had vowed to protect it. The Carrock was right in the middle.

Morine gathered the courage to ask him what had been bothering her for nearly three weeks. Knitting her brow, she asked him, "Why did you save me?" Beorn considered it for a moment. "And don't say it is because of Gandalf. You know as well as I that he would not have blamed you for it, had you left me, because chances are great that he would never have found out your involvement."

Growling at her in response, he realized that she would accept nothing less than the truth. He had come to know what his motivation had been during the past weeks as he watched her train, though he struggled with it. Ever since that night by the fireside, she had not strayed far from his thoughts. Casting his stubborn fears aside, he swept a loose strand of her ebony hair behind her ear and leaned closer, catching her off guard with the gentle touch. With transparent sincerity, his baritone voice answered, "Because ever since you stepped through my door, I have wanted to know more about you." With a breath, he continued, "You are the most intriguing person I have ever met, and I couldn't just leave you there." In the west, the sun was half-set behind the trees, showering everything in warm red hues in the final moments of the day.

He cupped a warm hand under her chin to tilt it up toward his own face. A fearful chill raced up her spine, and she briefly smelled the sweetness of honey with a hint of spicy cinnamon. His lips grazed hers softly for a long second before he pulled away, withdrawing his hand from her chin. She searched his brown eyes, finding nothing but warmth and welcome. He wrapped an arm around her waist as she leaned into him, and he entwined his other hand into her thick hair at the nape of her neck. They kissed again, unexpected passion quickly rising as the heat grew between them. Suppressing any nobler thoughts, she embraced this unknown primal feeling of humanity and lost herself in Beorn's sensuality.


End file.
